


how many secrets can you keep?

by kaermorons



Series: Witcher Jaskier Fics [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter. So much banter., Flirting (wasn't flirting), Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate use of Axii, Jaskier’s canon bilingualism, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Hurt/Comfort, Strikes again, The Criminal Minds fan really jumped out in chapter 2, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher Lore I Just Made Up, oh god so much pining, said 'happy ending' will not be for several chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23178109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: Jaskier wasn't a good liar, but he omitted the convenient parts of the truth like any other Witcher would. Oh, was that out loud?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Jaskier Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696759
Comments: 178
Kudos: 1322
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Do I Wanna Know? by the Arctic Monkeys

Leaving Yennefer’s ill-gotten castle was slightly difficult. A massive storm had broken the evening of all the excitement and rained them in, forcing an uneasy truce between the four. Yennefer and Geralt kept making obnoxious passes at one another, much to the discomfort of Jaskier and Chireadan on the other side of the room, playing Gwent with a focused intensity that would otherwise have been laughable.

“You need a spy, bad.” Chireadan muttered.

“Yes, I know how to play _Gwent,_ you bastard.” Jaskier huffed, tossing down an archer. “It seems badly-dealt hands are my destiny at this moment. This is bullshit, anyway.” Jaskier folded, flipping a crown to the elf.

“Yes, erm, witch. Do you have wine, I need to forget this night for as long as I live.” Jaskier swayed over to Geralt and Yennefer, who were having what looked like a staring contest of disgusting means.

Yennefer waved her hand vaguely in the air out of the room, all at once indicating the wine was in the cellar and that she didn’t give one singular fuck what Jaskier did with it. Jaskier only rolled his eyes and stomped out of the room. He heard Chireadan’s quick steps behind him in the hallway.

“I will not play you back, just keep the crown.” Jaskier said, sighing as he found a hay-filled crate of wine.

“It’s not that. Jaskier, you—your, erm, glamour?” Jaskier’s head snapped up in surprise, locking eyes with the elf.

“What?” he snapped.

“I noticed it back at the settlement, whatever did this to you seemed to damage the glamour you had. Look for yourself.” He was pulled to a hallway mirror, where sure enough, the magic was fading, wilting.

Eyes a little too blue for a human. Teeth a little too sharp. Scars starting to surface after years—decades—under glamour. The rest of his body would have been the same. “I need to get to Oxenfurt.” Jaskier muttered to himself. He turned to Chireadan. “Thank you. Is there a cloak around here, something to…” he waved a hand before his face and Chireadan jumped into action.

“You can’t leave before the storm ceases,” he warned. “Who are you?”

“That’s a question too dangerous to answer.” Jaskier snapped. “Cloak.”

* * *

They managed to stay away from Yennefer and Geralt the remainder of the night, Jaskier covering his face as the glamour deteriorated and eventually died. With the final snap of magic leaving his body, Jaskier snarled and stood, snapping off the chain to a small pendant around his neck, now showing the full effects of the djinn’s damage. He hurled the chain and pendant through a broken window into the deluge outside. “Fucking piece of shit djinn.” Jaskier hissed, rubbing at the still-sore wound on his neck.

“I have a salve.” Chireadan went to his satchel, pulling out a glass vial. “I apologize for inquiring as to your identity. I do not often see full-body glamours on...humans.”

“Well thank you for your apology.” Jaskier grunted, rolling over on his bedroll, too proud to sleep in the bed. “And I am a bloody human, you inquisitive bastard. Some of us just don’t like the way we look.”

Chireadan gave a sigh. “Look, I won’t ask anymore, just don’t lie to me if I’m going to help you.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” Jaskier muttered, curling tighter around himself and ignoring Chireadan as hard as he could. “I was a human.” he admits, for the first time in years. Decades, really. “Trying hard to be one again.”

“That’s probably why you didn’t die after being cursed by the djinn.” the elf hypothesized.

“Magic is magic, Chireadan, I’m no more immune than any poor man off the street who would have been cursed.” Jaskier sounded tired. Chireadan nodded, and they both slept until sunrise.

The sky had parted for the sun, clouds dissipating in the rising morning warmth. Jaskier agonized over how he would say goodbye to Geralt, and settled on a note for Chireadan to deliver.

> _Geralt—_
> 
> _I have business in Oxenfurt to get to. I promise not to run into any trouble before you bring it to me yourself. It was nice to see you again, for what it’s worth._
> 
> _—Jaskier_

Chireadan would confirm with him if he questioned the truth of it. Jaskier trudged through the muddy roads to town, where he bought a horse and some supplies and took off west, riding alongside the Pontar. He hoped the mage was still alive.

* * *

Geralt was confused by Jaskier, and certainly not for the first time. They’d been in one another’s company for just two days, the shortest amount of time Jaskier had fluttered in and out of Geralt’s life in the sixteen years they’d known and been traveling with one another. They’d had half an argument, breathed a sigh of relief at one another’s safety, and spent an icily cold evening together where Geralt didn’t so much as look over at the bard.

It was possible Jaskier felt threatened by Yennefer, considering her near-fatal meeting with the bard that previous morning. This brought more confusion. Surely, Jaskier knew Geralt would protect him? He stared at the note once more.

“Did he mention what business he had in Oxenfurt?” Geralt asked, feeling a pang of regret when the elf seemed to curl away from his vicious tone.

“Not in so many words.” Chireadan said, waving a hand. His eyes flickered nervously to Yennefer, barely clothed on a pile of cushions nearby. “It was very, very urgent, though.”

“Hm.” Geralt said. “Anything else? Did he say he was in danger?”

“He certainly took off this morning like he was.” This struck Geralt in the heart. As much as he hated to admit it, he did worry about Jaskier from time to time. Most of the time. But especially when he was away. Geralt continued to deny his affections for the other man, however. Geralt’s curiosity, however, wouldn’t let him go.

“And?”

“He’s gone by horse, if you want to ask him yourself, you’d best leave soon to find him. It’s not my place to explain further, I apologize.” Chireadan took his leave before Geralt could throttle him for more information.

“You’re not actually considering going after him, are you?” Yennefer drawled from her seat. Geralt ignored her.

“Did you at least stable my horse before drugging me?” He asked, grabbing his things as he moved around the room.

“So he _is_ a friend.” Yennefer smiled, all teeth. “He left before you could fix whatever you said to him.” Her intuition was annoying, at best. Geralt just grunted another non-response and shoved his armor over his shoulders and chest. “Yes I stabled your horse. She’s been seen to.”

“Where?” He shouldered his swords. He’d slept twice, he could get to Oxenfurt in three days if he left within the hour, when the sun was still rising.

“In the stables.” Geralt was somewhat regretting making that last wish. “Here, take this. You seem like the type to ride through the night.” She held out a satchel to Geralt, which hadn’t been anywhere near her a moment before. It smelled like dried meats and fruits. He nodded in thanks and shouldered the bag.

“Yennefer. I’ll see you again.” Geralt couldn’t quite fully admit to the truth of his wish, but he felt he had to warn her.

“If you don’t die before then. Goodbye, Geralt.” She swept away out the door in a flurry of fabric, lilac, and gooseberries.

Outside, Geralt whistled for Roach, finding the stables at her response. Saddling up was a routine he went through thoughtlessly, mind occupied on what could have possibly spurred Jaskier away. He didn’t do or say anything particularly mean. Was he upset over the whole curse? Geralt essentially put it on him, wished it on him. There’s that pang again, same place, same intensity: the Jaskier part of Geralt’s heart.

* * *

Geralt took Roach down the river, toward Oxenfurt. He did not hear any humming or light-pocketed townspeople on his way, a usual byproduct of Jaskier stopping to play. The urgency and mystery grew exponentially.

At bed-down, Geralt took a chance to think about what he was doing. Why was he pursuing Jaskier so readily? Was he, too, not ready to let the other man go that quickly and easily? Jaskier just caused him three days of trouble, why would he seek even more?

He shook his head to free himself, and settled to meditate. Jaskier would answer for his behavior. Whether or not Geralt would remained to be seen.

Oxenfurt stood proudly on the river, taller buildings gleaming in mid-afternoon sun. He’d ridden Roach hard, but still had not caught up to or overtaken Jaskier. He must have exchanged horses in one of the towns he passed. After stabling his mare and threatening the stable boy wordlessly, Geralt took to the streets.

Stealth wasn’t a luxury Geralt often had to wish for, but living for this long taught him several things. The spring weather was still chilly enough in the shadows that he could get away with wearing his hooded cloak, slouching down a little as he walked through the crowds. All this spy-like behavior was very much beneath Geralt or any other Witcher, but he got that feeling that Jaskier would not be forthcoming.

He formed a hypothesis: there were several reasons why Jaskier would have fled Rinbe at the pace and urgency he did. Firstly, he could be embarrassed, in which case Geralt would have definitely found him drowning in ale in some tavern. Secondly, he could be jealous of Geralt and Yennefer falling into bed together, so he’d be at one of the whorehouses trying to fuck the memory away. Thirdly, he could have forgotten something here and wasn’t ready to go traveling with Geralt again without retrieving it. Fourthly, and this one twisted Geralt’s gut and made his heart sink, he could have finally wised up and decided Geralt’s company wasn’t worth the personal bodily harm he could come to and he had fled, never to return. He might not even be in Oxenfurt. 

The final hypothesis was open-ended: if he was neither embarrassed, jealous, forgetful, or regretful, he was hiding something. He knew, recalling Jaskier’s babble about his alma mater, that there were only a handful of taverns he frequented, though he bragged that he’d been to each one within the city walls at least once. He made a list of what he could, and kept it written on the back of Jaskier’s note. Beneath it, he wrote a list of bordellos he’d have to venture to, just to get rid of that second hypothesis. He then wrote Jaskier’s address he kept with the University. It’s a long shot, and the third option was probably more hopeful thinking than anything else, but he’d have to cover every corner.

List in hand, he set out, picking his way through town and quietly questioning the tavern owners, the pimps and the prostitutes, even some University staff. None had seen him, and none had known he was even in the city. Frustrated with the dead ends, Geralt walked to the final address on his list, Jaskier’s residence.

Geralt knew several things about Jaskier, but it seemed the more he sought answers, the more questions he came up with. The address he’d scrawled out led to a rather regal mansion with iron bars and even a sentry posted by the gate. This was not a professor’s salary. This wasn’t even a viscount’s allowance. This was Nobility, with all the gravity it could be said with. Geralt approached the sentry.

“May I help you?” The man asked, appraising Geralt’s appearance, still rumpled and covered in dirt from traveling. He smelled like horse.

“Julian Pankrantz sent me.” Geralt said, sweat prickling the back of his neck. He never lied unless he had to, and it always left a bitter taste. “His rooms are above?”

“Master Dandelion hasn’t been at the residence for several months.” The sentry replied.

“May be my fault, we travel often. He’s a bit _indisposed_ right now and asked me to retrieve a set of his clothes.” Geralt forced his body to remain calm. Anything could give him away. 

“I can have the servants fetch—”

“It’s a very particular item. He’d prefer discretion, if you understand.”

The sentry, obviously familiar with Jaskier’s dalliances and eccentricities, finally allowed Geralt passage into the gates.

The courtyard was well-manicured and lush. Spring obviously favored this place, and vibrant flowers and even herbs sprung up gleefully from the ground. Geralt recognized almost all of them, frequent additions to his alchemy projects. The twist of unease tightened.

A servant appeared before him, and the sentry instructed them to lead Geralt to Jaskier’s— _Master Dandelion’s—_ rooms. The servant seemed confused at the request, since apparently Jaskier never brought anyone home with him. Geralt kept silent.

They passed a library, doors open wide to reveal full shelves. Geralt’s medallion at his breastbone hummed, and he hoped this wasn’t one of those vampiric hideouts. The massive windows that lined the walls dissuaded that, but as soon as it had started, the medallion quieted as they walked away.

“I’ll stay out here until you’ve retrieved what you need.” The servant said. Damn. He’d be on a time-crunch. Geralt nodded and shut the door behind him.

Jaskier’s room was covered in a thin layer of dust. The service staff must clean the place, but infrequently, if the sentry’s indication of Jaskier’s absence is to be believed. A large bed sat against the wall furthest from the windows, and a desk with no papers upon it was placed near the closest window, allowing for natural light. Several instruments were propped against the other side of the wide room, neatly in cases or proudly on display. A shelf of books that turned out to be journals and notebooks sat behind panes of glass, safe in a cabinet.

Geralt observed several things: this was not a master bedroom. That meant this was not Jaskier’s house. He very obviously lived here, from time to time, but it was not important enough to him to come here directly from Rinbe. Whatever else he needed to do took prescience.

It was also entirely too neat for the Jaskier he knew. 

He quickly pulled apart a trunk of clothes too lavish to look at for very long, finding nothing. He took a doublet as evidence to his lie.

Geralt’s curiosity walked him toward the glass cabinet of notebooks. Some tomes looked very old and weathered. He carefully opened the doors and took one in the upper-left corner, opening it at random. Jaskier’s handwriting was impossible to mistake.

> _Novigrad, 1191. A fire broke out at the barn we were staying in. It wasn’t my fault this time, though nobody else would confess to it. Drunken Witchers and Igni do not mix._

Geralt snapped the book closed in his hand, casting his eyes out the window to the square below. Anger coursed through him, and his breaths left in rather dramatic little huffs. Was this a joke? Was Jaskier taking to falsifying literature about Geralt’s kind as some sort of amusement?

“Unbelievable.” Geralt set the book down on the desk and took another. Certainly, none of the other volumes would contain such insulting passages.

> _Skellige, 1194. The Griffin School is full of absolute madmen. They can drink as well as they can slaughter creatures of the air. I’m happy the caravan took us across to the Isles._

Geralt growled and took another book.

> _Rivia, (maybe) 1200. Sometimes I wonder to myself if anyone else knows of us. We certainly know of them. Kaer Morhen, in Hertch. The Cat School, somewhere near Nilfgaard. And we, Vipers, we slither about from town to town, pulled along by horses and no sense of purpose other than our creed. Maybe I’m getting too old for this._

Geralt was going to kill Jaskier for poking such fun at Geralt’s life. There were to be no more songs, no more poems or ballads or shanties or even a fucking melody in Geralt’s name. He’d never felt betrayal like this before. He couldn’t stop reading.

> _There’s to be a tournament in Kaedwen! A Witcher Tournament. It seems only the Cats and Wolves were invited but it’s unanimous in the caravan that we will be going. Perhaps it’d be a good time to reconnect with some of the more sedentary groups. I am utterly excited and writing this from the back of a horse._

Geralt’s stomach sank as he flipped through a few more pages.

> _We barely escaped with our lives. The same cannot be said for the Cats and Wolves. I shall never covet a throne if it brings this cruel madness. We have been banned from Kaer Morhen and cannot return, forever._

The somber tone shift was at Geralt’s heart. He knew the event Jaskier was speaking of. To desecrate it so was beyond apology. He shoved every book he could fit in his bag and left, breezing past the servant without another look back.

The air outside was stale, now. The herbs and flowers, once so familiar before the gates, laughed at Geralt. He found the nearest tavern, one of the ones that had been on his list.

“Back so soon!” The man at the bar exclaimed. Geralt glowered. “Haven’t seen the bard in the last fifteen minutes, unfortunately.”

“Not here for that bastard.” Geralt snapped. “Need a room. And a bathtub full of ale.”

* * *

Jaskier wove through the streets with practiced ease. He never truly appreciated his traveling life until he’d settled down here. When he’d been traveling with Geralt, that love had sparked again, taking the continent one step at a time. 

“Thank the gods.” He muttered as he caught a candle in the window of the shop he was heading for. The door squealed a little when he pushed in, but that was more a security measure than negligence.

“Jaskier.” He was greeted by a smooth voice next to his shoulder. Damned witches. “You smell familiar.”

“Ran into Yennefer of Vengerberg in Rinbe.” He quipped. “No wonder I’m back in your lovely arms, Lita.” He embraced the smaller woman briefly.

“What happened to that lovely glamour I gave you?” She pouted. “Yen do that?”

“A djinn, actually. Let’s go inside some more.” Lita walked them past the bits and bobs she used as a storefront to where she kept her real powerful magic items.

“A djinn?” she prompted when he’d been quiet too long. Jaskier gave a nod.

“A nasty one. Latched itself onto my friend, who was actually really fucking cross at me for something, and I suddenly had this massive boil on my throat for almost a day. Coughing blood, nasty.”

“I told you your mouth would only get you in trouble, Jaskier.”

“Yes, well. Here I am. The trouble-maker at the door of the trouble-solver.”

“That I am.” She nodded. “Was anything else damaged?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Ring still works, went past a ghoul fast enough I didn’t need to stop, but the enchantment is still intact. Might need a new tailoring. Good thing I’m in town.” He made a face at his bloodied blue clothes.

“And the blades?”

“A man has to keep some of his secrets, doesn’t he?” Jaskier smiled, and with his appearance now, seemed more threatening than teasing. It didn’t bother Lita, though.

“I’ll get you fixed up. It’ll cost you.”

“I’d be suspicious if it didn’t. I’ll need to stop by my apartment first for some coin. When should I be back?”

“Two nights. I’ll see you the morning after the second.” Lita led him back to the door leading to the busy street. “Wait.” She turned him around and closed her eyes, holding an open palm before his face. She muttered a word in Elder, and Jaskier felt like he’d been thrown in the river. “That should keep until we meet again. Thank you for coming by, Jaskier. I should shorten the lifespan of this next glamour just to pull you back.” She teased.

“Might be too dead to come back if that happens.” He kissed her cheek and left. Even his clothes seemed nicer, though he knew they’d be disgusting when the spell wore off. “Right. Homeward!”

* * *

Geralt spent the next few hours drinking and leafing through Jaskier’s blasphemes. He wanted to weep. How could a man who branded himself as Geralt’s “very best friend in the whole wide world” do this? How had he even found out some of these things? Had he been seeing—no, _traveling_ with other Witchers? The pang in his chest fissured a little at the thought. 

The journals cut off abruptly in May of 1270. Geralt remembered what happened then, and the parallel between Jaskier’s stories and his own life were too painful to think on.

He was alone, again.

* * *

Jaskier greeted the sentry at the gates by name. He looked rather confused to see him, but allowed him passage. He wouldn’t be long.

Several servants gave him the same confused look, which scraped at the back of his mind. He again ignored it, breezing to the library, where he opened a safe and refilled his coin purse. The Countess was very good to him, even after all these years.

As he walked to his quarters, he got an uneasy feeling. When he walked in, everything was wrong.

The trunk was torn apart, his things had been moved, and worst of all:

His journals were gone.

* * *

Geralt decided to take his moping to the streets. The ale and the roaring fire in his rented room made his head stuffy and his heart ache even more. The damned books were still in his bag as he walked, aimless, through the streets. He kept his hood up for whatever reason. He didn’t want to be seen right now.

His dulled senses didn’t let him realize Jaskier was elbowing past him like all of hell was on his heels until the man himself was surging around a corner. Geralt stared, slack-jawed, for a moment before following him. The anger had certainly not died down in his gut, but the longing for answers tugged his heart forward.

Jaskier ran and ran to a small nondescript shop mid-distance between campus and the house Jaskier apparently stayed in. Geralt knew following him in would give him away, so he took a seat on a crate nearby and waited. 

And waited. 

And waited some more.

He was sure there was no other exit to the building, but Jaskier was in there for hours. There was some shouting from within, but after that, it was quiet. Geralt’s heart thudded on, a funeral march for his former friendship.

The books were especially heavy now.

Had Jaskier seen his intrusion? Why was he panicking? _He very well should be panicking,_ Geralt growled to himself.

When Jaskier emerged, at almost sunrise, Geralt breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wasn’t killed before he could kill Jaskier himself.

Jaskier looked well-rested, not a hair out of place, in a new set of clothes that gleamed in the torchlight. The angry bruising Geralt remembered around his neck was gone. He had a very somber frown on his face.

Geralt followed him up the steps to where the public could walk along the tops of Oxenfurt’s city walls. Braziers were lit along the way and Geralt trailed him easily. Jaskier stopped before an open flame to warm himself from the chilly night. Geralt let himself be known, taking heavier steps toward the bard he once called friend.

Jaskier looked up and brightened, but it did not meet his eyes. “Geralt! What brings you here? Figured you’d be in the opposite direction of wherever you knew I was going.” It was jarring to hear him so bitter. Perhaps he knew that Geralt had found his perverse writings.

“You left so quickly and suspiciously.” Geralt said, coming closer.

“Yes, well, a man has to keep some secrets to stay alive, doesn’t he?” Again, the bitter tone. He looked out at the inky black river. Geralt knew there were probably a handful of drowners lurking below their feet. 

“I went to your house.” Geralt said. Jaskier’s face paled. A wounded smirk crawled onto Geralt’s lips. “I found your falsehoods, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s mouth gaped like a fish out of water, eyes wide with pain and shattered hope. “Geralt, I—”

“Did you think it was funny? Did you laugh to your friends here while you wrote of every Witcher’s pain? Every event that divided us?” His voice was a snarl. Jaskier couldn’t breathe. “Did you write these bastardizations of my peoples’ history while I slept? Feet away from you? While you let me think you were my friend?” He spat the word in disgust as he held out a volume.

“Geralt, you _are_ my friend, I promise it’s not—”

“Not what I think? I’ve read every single one, Jaskier. You don’t write about these things without. Without. Is all I am to you a paycheck? Is my trust, my respect, my friendship worth less to you compared to these _stories?”_

Tears welled in Jaskier’s eyes but he willed them not to fall.

“Geralt.” He whispered. “You’re _everything_ to me.” His shoulders were shaking. “Please forgive me. They—”

“Tell me they’re just stories, Jaskier. Tell me you weren’t going to sell them. Tell me they’re just fodder.” The flames licked at Geralt’s armor as he thrust the book at Jaskier’s chest. A few tears fell. “I will forgive you, if you disown these lies you’ve written and promise to never do it again.”

Jaskier held the book in his hands. It was his first journal, the one he’d had a few years after the Changes. His hands shook as he ran them over the soft cover. So many memories, names he feared he’d forget, things that shaped his happiness and his life for decades. He met Geralt’s eyes and knew his decision.

He’d killed himself before, and he would do it again if Geralt asked.

“They’re lies.” Jaskier whispered. He dropped the book into the fire, the impact on the logs sending up sparks that ignited a powerful sorrow in Jaskier’s chest.

Geralt, damn him, held out another. Jaskier took it, and put it in the fire as well. Memories of those already taken by flames, sent to flames again.

“They’re just stories.” It was difficult to breathe, but no more difficult than to burn away pieces of himself to repair the relationship he’d already apparently damaged. Geralt would never know.

“They were for my own amusement.” His voice cracked on the last word as he dropped another book into the flames.

“They’re fodder. They’re nothing. Geralt, they’re nothing.” His voice shook as he said it. _They’re nothing. I’m nothing. Take me back, take me back. I’ll be only what you permit._

The final book dropped into the flames. Geralt reached out and in a mind-blurring twirl, had Jaskier held over the edge of the wall by his shirt. Too lost to do anything else, he didn’t even hold on to Geralt’s wrist, his hand buried in the fine fabric over his aching heart. Jaskier dangled like a doll over the icy Pontar.

“If you do this again, I will kill you before you can even blink.” Jaskier nodded in understanding, numb and cold. The flames held no more warmth to him anymore.

Suddenly, he was pulled back to safety, and wrapped in a fierce embrace. His face was smashed into Geralt’s chest, and through the armor and his cloak, he could feel warmth again.

Broken sobs tore from Jaskier’s chest and throat. He apologized into Geralt’s heart, begging forgiveness though he’d been granted it already. He wept for what felt like forever before Geralt gently pulled him back. His face was lacking its usual mask of angry indifference, and instead held an expression of concern and sadness.

Geralt unhooked his cloak and wrapped it around Jaskier’s shoulders when he shivered a little. Turning him so Jaskier would not see the smoldering brazier and the ashes of the books, Geralt led him silently back down the wall and to the tavern.

Maybe he could stand to let the bard accompany him longer. He’d be able to keep an eye on him that way. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some violent themes in line with serial killers

Jaskier is uncharacteristically quiet as they take to the road again. Geralt is glad to travel in silence, or at least that’s what he told himself. The sound of Roach’s hooves on the road, Jaskier’s softer footfalls, and the wind in the trees made for a melancholic atmosphere that even Geralt couldn’t ignore.

“How did you even find me?” Jaskier asked at one point, his first words in hours. Geralt jumped on the chance to drive away the dour mood.

“Your note left little to go off of.” Geralt said. He pulled it out and handed it to Jaskier, all twenty or so names on the list scribbled out.

“You’re aware I don’t live in a whorehouse, right?” Jaskier snarked.

“Yes. I figured there were only a handful of places you’d go. What was that shop you were in, anyway?”

Jaskier’s silence was distracting. “Old friend.” He said. “The djinn messed me up. Can’t catch a coin looking like a slapped-around teenager.”

“A glamour, then? Or just a healing spell?”

Were Jaskier not walking, he would have shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “A little of this, a little of that. She’s a very bespoke herbalist.”

Jaskier did not comment on the amount of questions Geralt was asking. He deserved answers and Jaskier was in no position to withhold them.

“Will you show me?”

Jaskier met his eyes. “Show you what?”

“The damage.” Jaskier swallowed.

“By the time the spell wears off it may have already healed. I’ve already angered her more than enough for a lifetime, and returning to Oxenfurt isn’t an option for me.” He stared straight ahead and Geralt felt like he’d swallowed a rock. Not an option? Did Geralt’s actions drive him out of his apartment? His job? His home?

“Hm.” The silence slipped in between them once more.

* * *

At sunset, Jaskier was shivering. He’d given Geralt his cloak back while they were saddling up Roach, and was still only dressed in his usual finery. Well, anything Jaskier wore was finery compared to Geralt’s own drab garb. Jaskier’s traveling clothes were still embroidered and flashy, but also made of sturdier material than he used to wear. Sixteen years on the road must have taught him something.

As they set up camp for the night, Jaskier cleared the ground of any rocks or annoying twigs. He always seemed to have a fire going strong by the time Geralt came back from hunting, but this time his hands were shaking too hard trying to hit the flint against the stone.

Geralt watched him struggle as weak little clacks came from the rocks in the bard’s hands. Jaskier’s breath picked up in pace, growing shallow. He dropped the tools and pressed his hands over his face, still knelt on the ground. When Geralt struck out with Igni at the small pile of sticks, Jaskier jumped about ten feet out of his skin. The accompanying yelp held strange emotions: pain and loss, but not surprise or fear.

Jaskier brushed past him as he strutted out of the site. His upset emotions rolled off of him in waves. Geralt didn’t know how to deal with it, so he ignored it. He justified to himself that Jaskier was still getting through the guilt and embarrassment of what happened in Oxenfurt.

Sure. That was it.

* * *

Jaskier had been walking for almost a quarter mile before he started feeling his legs again. His mind had been trapped in a loop of what happened on the tower wall, and he feared he’d misremember things if he got too emotional about it now.

After all, his memory was only in his head now that the journals had been stripped away from him.

He leaned against a tree and let the darkness soothe the pains the fire had inflicted:

_Screaming. Snarling. Cracking. Crashing._

_The other caravan Witchers were scrambling for armor and weaponry. They’d been caught unawares, sentry murdered stealthily in the nighttime. “You can’t run, Witchers!” A taunting voice laughed through the walls of flame._

_“Help me!” Jaskier jumped up at the cry, finding a Witcher pinned under a large beam. “They’ll kill us all,” they insisted. They were mad, delirious from blood loss. “Take the texts. Run.”_

_Papers, books, scrolls -- they weighed more than their masses. He shoved them beneath his shirt until his tunic was almost overflowing. The Witcher under the beam was dead._

_Horses screamed as they were cut down, but there was no time to mourn, grieve, or fight. The sinking feeling of cowardice could not stop his feet from carrying him into the woods as fast as they could. He held the books and knowledge to him like he was holding in his guts. A flaming arrow whizzed past him, catching only his hair and setting it alight._

_Panic gripped him now. He could not risk the books by jumping into a stream. He could not risk letting go of the books for too long, lest they tumble from their fabric safety. He ducked around a thick copse of trees and made a split-second decision: he pointed a hand near his still-flaming head, and cast Aard._

_His ears rang with the impact of magic, but he could tell the fire was out. Pain throbbed at the side of his face, skin melted where the fire had strayed from his hair._

_He readjusted his hold on the books and ran._

Trying to make the fire at the camp had brought all the memories to the forefront, and the tremors in his hands echoed phantom pains at his neck and ear. Underneath the glamour, the burns had long since healed, but they still itched and throbbed under certain conditions. At least his hair had grown back.

Then the campfire had been too close, too sudden, and for a moment, Jaskier was back there in Kerack, heeding the words of a dying brother. His blood still felt wild by the time he started trekking back to camp.

* * *

“Didn’t mean to surprise you.” Geralt said after they’d finished their meal, in silence. Usually at this time of night they’d be at least a little at ease, and Jaskier would be playing some song he was still working out. Geralt would be minding his swords or armor or Roach. For sixteen years, they’d been at ease with one another. They felt like strangers again. Both loathed the realization.

“You saying that to me surprises me more.” Jaskier deflected. Geralt waited, expecting more babble to come, but none did.

“You won’t play?” Geralt tried again.

“Considering you think my voice is equivalent to a pocket of air in some pie crust, I don’t think I will. I can’t handle your wrath another time this week, Geralt.” The bitter tone Geralt remembered from the tower wall returned. He frowned.

“Jaskier, I wanted to—”

“Don’t worry about it Geralt.” Jaskier folded his doublet into a pillow and faced away from him on his bedroll. He usually liked to keep his front to the fire for warmth. Geralt suspected it was him that Jas was turning away from.

“Goodnight.” Geralt said, and resigned himself to an early night as well.

* * *

_“Help me!” The voice called. “Save the texts, you have to, or he will make you burn them!” His hands were full of journals: his journals. He moved his mouth but not a sound came out. Blood filled his mouth, he was still under the djinn’s curse—_

_“You think this is funny? You think it’s funny?” He whirled and Geralt stood there, holding out a journal to him accusingly. Flames licked up the side of his own head, into his hair. He still tried to explain._

_“No, no please, I can’t—”_

_“Don’t let him burn me! Don’t forget me, don’t forget me!”_

_“Jaskier!”_

_“No, no, no...”_

“Jaskier!”

At Geralt’s shout, Jaskier bolted upright from his bedroll and clawed at his face, trying to get the flames off. A scream ripped from his throat, and judging from the pain it hadn’t been the first time that night. His fingernails dug into his neck, his mouth, the side of his head. His feet kicked as he tried to retreat.

“Jaskier! Stop, it’s a dream,” Geralt’s voice warred with the horrible intonation from the nightmare. It was hard to see, the fire having died in the night. Golden eyes finally found his, and two large hands pulled his hands from his face. “Just a dream.” Jaskier knew that voice, it was how he spoke to Roach when she was spooked. As insulting as he may have found it, it still did the job, and Jaskier found his lungs again.

“M’sorry.” Jaskier blurted out, seizing movements giving way to violent tremors throughout his body.

“Just lie down.” Geralt released his hands and Jaskier almost whined at the loss of warmth. Geralt, for as icy as his heart was at times, was the only warmth Jaskier could manage without thinking of Kerack.

Jaskier did as he was told.

* * *

The rest of the night passed sleeplessly, silently. At sunrise, they wordlessly packed up and set out on the road again. They were both miserable, from a lack of sleep and the tension that had gripped them both the entire night. “Where are we off to?” Jaskier asked softly after about an hour of walking. He hadn’t even made a complaint at the early hour, the endless walk, anything. Geralt got the feeling he was trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible.

“Since we’re already near it I figured we’d go to the coast, stop in Kerack. Always trouble in Kerack.”

Jaskier’s heartbeat picked up at the mention. So soon after the dream? Had he said something in his sleep that would give away the source of his terrors? “Why not Cedaris? Better lodgings in Cedaris.” He said quickly.

“Less monsters in Cedaris.”

“Why not further east along the Adelatte? There’s always been river monsters there.” He was losing this argument, he knew. He just couldn’t handle losing the only memories of his fallen brethren _and_ visiting the country where they died in the same week.

Geralt seemed to catch on to this. “You have enemies in Kerack?”

_Not as many as the ones who already live in my head._

“No. Just. I don’t think anyone at the Crab and Garfish will want to see my face. Got in a little fight there.”

“We’ll just stay on the left bank, then.”

Anxiety gripped Jaskier. It was on the left bank that the attacks had taken place.

“Are you sure we can’t go to Cedaris instead?” Jaskier stopped in his tracks, whispering.

Geralt reared Roach to a halt and turned to look at him. “Why are you putting up such a fight over this? We’ve been to Kerack before.”

Jaskier fiddled with the strap of his bag, feeling entirely too exposed here. “I know I’m in no position to ask you for favors, Geralt. All I can ask is that we please, please go somewhere else.” His voice sounded as small as he felt, and Geralt’s golden gaze bored holes into his very soul.

The silence that spread between them extended to the trees, all the wind stopped as if to listen. “We’ll go to Cedaris.”

* * *

Geralt didn’t know why he conceded to Jaskier, then, but by some stroke of Destiny, there was plenty of work in Cedaris and the surrounding urban sprawl. Geralt tended not to venture into any marine contracts unless desperate, but he ended his nights soaking wet more often than not. Spring wasn’t known for being dry, especially near the coast.

Jaskier tried his best to keep his mind off of the past, near and far. He spent his days wandering Cidaris, entertaining little urchin children with his songs of adventure, but not necessarily Witchers. Or one Witcher in particular.

Every time he went to open his mouth and sing of the brave Geralt of Rivia, his throat closed up, unable to shake the memory of hatred in Geralt’s eyes. Would the mere mention of the man’s name in song incur that wrath again? Jaskier did not want to risk it, so he stuck to local songs, traditional ballads.

At night, he retreated to the taverns, getting drunk enough to recount the songed tales of their travels. It was the only way he could get through _Toss A Coin_ without incredible self-loathing. He collected his money and went back to their shared room at the end of the night, when he was just on the left side of ‘too drunk to play’.

Geralt didn’t ask for reasons why. He’d known Jaskier long enough that the man was hard-pressed to suffer a hangover. At the same time, he was slightly hoping the bard would complain loudly, it’d be a nice change of pace from the resigned silence from the man.

* * *

“There’s a murderer in Cedaris.”

Geralt said it with such disinterest that Jaskier’s head snapped up. “The one that’s mauled five women by the north pier?” Geralt faced him. It was too rainy to go out and play for children, so Jaskier was trapped indoors until the evening.

Geralt nodded. “How’d you hear of that?”

“Men talk,” Jaskier shrugged. “It’s kind of the only thing going on here, besides the bloody rain. Someone post a contract for whatever it is?”

“That’s the thing,” Geralt huffed and pulled out the soggy papers he’d taken from the alderman’s notice board. “Missing notices, for all the victims. But no reward posted for whoever was doing this.”

“You don’t think it’s a monster,” Jaskier stated. He leaned over to look at the papers himself. Geralt spread them out before him.

“Some creatures do tend to favor one type of victim, but I’ve seen the bodies. They were shredded to pieces. Someone is trying to cover up the murders and blame it on a monster.”

“Why would they do that?” Jaskier peered at the rain-blotted words of a notice.

“They’re probably nobility or someone important in the community. All the women were from well-off families, no prostitutes among the victims.” The mystery unfolded like a map before them. By the time Jaskier was supposed to go down to the tavern, they were in deep, poring over the notes Geralt had kept.

“I thought Cedaris had an inquisitor for this.”

“Even with the victims, it’s not important enough for him, apparently,” Geralt grumbled with a glower at the tabletop.

“Why are you so invested in this?” Jaskier asked, sitting back and looking at Geralt. He looked tired. Raw. He’d obviously been working on this mystery for a while, and had met no leads if he was coming to Jaskier about it. The thought should make him warm inside, but that icy cage around his heart held strong.

“I’ve resigned myself to the fact that men can be monsters as much as the beasts that came from the convergence of the spheres. Nobody should be able to get away freely with this, no matter their family name or coppers in their coffers.” He drank his mug of ale with a frown.

“That’s very noble of you.” Jaskier said.

Geralt’s eyes flicked up to his, assessing. With surprise, he realized that Jaskier’s intent was pure. He meant what he said. It was hard to separate the Jaskier who sat before him with the one that filled several volumes of books with blatant lies, but his heart helped him swallow the fear. “Thank you,” Geralt said.

He’d been a lot more forthcoming with gratitude recently. He had grown another hypothesis in the wake of the drama that had unfolded in Oxenfurt: Jaskier only turned to making up stories because Geralt didn’t appreciate him enough when he spoke. How many times had he been prudish with details of his hunts, and Jaskier had spun a tale almost nowhere near the truth of what had actually happened? Surely, this whole debacle was just a product of Jaskier’s overactive imagination.

“So,” Jaskier said, shifting in his seat, “I thought you normally didn’t hunt monstrous men.” He was fiddling with his hands, a sure sign he wanted to write down ideas for a song. Geralt kicked himself for knowing the man’s tics that well.

“I don’t,” he agreed. “And I don’t like that I’m even thinking of doing this. I’ve seen several Witchers make exceptions which prove the rules they once had were just empty words.” Jaskier nodded along with him in understanding.

“You told me not to fuck a witch, before,” Jaskier smirked behind his own mug.

“I told you not to fuck _with_ witches. Do as I say, not as I do, bard.”

The evening passed along. Jaskier never went down to the tavern, opting instead to share Geralt’s rare company. The atmosphere was not comfortable, but it was not uneasy. By the end of the night, they had scrounged together a list of noblemen who could have committed the crime, and wealthy merchants around the north pier. They went to sleep easier than they had the whole week, even with a murderer on the loose.

* * *

The next morning, another body was found by the docks, still slashed almost beyond thought. Jaskier accompanied him there, dressed in more neutral clothes so as to not draw suspicion. Jaskier held a handkerchief over his face. “Unless he was using a fencing weapon that could slash from both sides, he has two weapons,” he observed. Geralt turned to him, mind overflowing with questions, but more interested in the fact that the logic of his statement was sound. Jaskier’s face was pale and his jaw was clenched, though he hid it with the handkerchief. Geralt wrote it off as disgust from the sight of a mangled corpse. There was, after all, nothing poetic about the scene.

“We’re looking for someone that probably works in a labor industry, not a noble,” Geralt added. He crouched down to shut the one eye of the woman that was left unslashed.

“Do you think he wanted them to know he was killing them?” Jaskier asked. “She looks like she put up a fight, even had her eyes open.”

“That’s an interesting angle,” Geralt pulled out their makeshift suspect list and the missing persons flyers. “Perhaps he was rejected by these women at one point. They all don’t seem to know one another.”

“I’ve been rejected dozens of times and never had the urge to kill a person,” Jaskier said.

“You’re not an incensed murderer, Jaskier.”

They walked back to the tavern quietly. Geralt was deep in thought, half about the murders and questions that followed, but half about Jaskier.

Where had he heard about the murders, if they were near the west side of Cedaris and they’d taken place in the north? How had he known about the slash patterns on the body leading to dual weaponry? He’d never so much as cried for help when he was near Geralt on a hunt, but when Geralt let him nearer to the mystery, he had sharp insights and instincts. The way he’d spoken of nobles carrying out sick crimes sounded like he knew from experience. Had he been wrong, all these years thinking Jaskier was just a silly lesser noble wanting to tag along for adventures?

“Where’d you learn about wounds caused by blades, anyway?” Geralt asked over dinner.

“From being around you, of course,” Jaskier purred. “Listen. I’ve got to play a set tonight, and I think I can maybe get some leads on the murders if I play near the place the women were found.” He sounded confident in himself, but Geralt felt his gut twist with unease.

“I don’t like the idea of you walking around in all your frippery-- don’t look at me like that, it’s _frippery--_ while there’s a blade-wielding maniac out there taking lives,” Geralt crossed his arms over his chest.

Jaskier shook his head. “Then walk me out there. Stay. These people are scared, Geralt, look at them.” Geralt did, seeing the common tension among the faces and shoulders of the people around them. Even in town, people didn’t travel on their own. “You have two giant fucking swords on your back, I don’t think they’ll want to talk to a Witcher if whoever’s doing this is who they pay rent to, or whoever delivers their food.”

Geralt, for the second time that day, was stalled by the fact that Jaskier was both right, and growing infinitely more suspicious. Perhaps he’d picked up some investigative techniques while they were on the road, or when he was working as a professor in Oxenfurt. “Fine. I’m walking you there and back.”

* * *

The tavern Jaskier chose was a stone’s throw from where the first victim was found, and the tension in the room could have been cut with a dull knife. Geralt was impressed to find that for however much of a natural performer Jaskier was, he could still slip in and out of recognition among the crowds, not singing songs, but gently strumming his lute. He was not here for coin, but for answers.

Geralt nursed his ale as Jaskier popped in and out of sight, gently speaking to patrons while the strumming masked their words enough for privacy in a crowded room. He checked back in with Geralt.

“Anything?” Geralt muttered.

“Not at all. I get the feeling they have an idea of who it might be, but no one is speaking.” Jaskier thrust his lute into Geralt’s hands, suddenly tense. “I’ll be back.”

“Where are you go—” before Geralt could finish his sentence, Jaskier had slipped off again, without a trace. The lute was still warm in his hands. “Fuck.”

* * *

Jaskier picked his way outside, where it was lightly sprinkling. Torches that had not yet guttered barely lit the mouth of the alley he was heading for.

“I know you slipped down here, you slithery bastard.” Jaskier said, just before a hand shot out of the darkness and pulled him in. He let out a grunt when his back was pressed against the cold, wet wall. “Ah, nice to see you again, how’s the last half-century treated you, you bloody traitor,” he spat.

“You have less than a minute to convince me why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand,” the other growled at him.

“You have the White Wolf of Kaer Morhen on your trail, Cyprion. I’d say it’s me you have to convince.” The hands released him.

“It’s Lord Marek now. You’ll have some difficulty trying to accuse a lord of murdering seven women.” Cyprion sneered at him.

“Oh, so it’s seven, is it? Where’d you hide the other? Or were you just busy tonight?”

“Easy, Viper.” Jaskier felt the cold press of silver on his ribs. Damn, he was getting slow. “Don’t say something you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“So what happened, Cyp? You finally trade your brains for blood? Mad like a Cat now?” Jaskier heard the tavern door open and familiar steps lead out. Jaskier cursed himself at making Geralt leave his swords behind. Fuck. “Thought you only killed women, _Lord Marek.”_ He raised his voice to alert Geralt to his position, and situation.

The blade lifted to Jaskier’s face. “Funny spell you have on. Couldn’t get rid of the burns the first time round?” Cyprion hissed. “When I’m done with you, you’ll need a lot more than a glamour to cover your pretty face, coward.”

“I suggest you leave off, my lord.” Geralt’s voice came from the alley mouth, accompanied by his shadow falling over the two. Golden eyes gleamed in anger and wrath.

“Ah, so you’ve traded up and let someone else do the work have you?” Cyprion’s voice curled in cruel saccharine mockery. “How interesting.”

“Geralt, let me introduce you to our murderer, Lord Marek,” Jaskier said, forcing delight into his tone like he didn’t have a blade at his neck.

“What have I told you about being bait, Jaskier,” Geralt said, taking a few steps closer.

“Jaskier, hmmm. What a lovely name for a gravestone,” Cyprion whirled and moved to throw a knife at Geralt, but Jaskier was faster, and closer. In the blink of an eye, a dagger from Jaskier’s boot was embedded in Cyprion’s neck.

The madman died with blood gurgling out of his mouth forced from laughter. Whatever the joke was died with him.

Jaskier pulled the dagger from his neck and wiped it on his pants before returning it to his boot. Geralt grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. “Why did you do that?” He growled.

“He was going to kill you!” Jaskier protested, legs kicking at the air.

“He was going to kill _you,_ Jaskier. Why didn’t you bring me out here?” He looked hurt even in the low light. Jaskier frowned.

“I recognized him from the docks this morning. I had to move fast, otherwise he would have gotten away. I’m sorry, Geralt! Now put me down, you brute.” Geralt complied.

“Don’t do that again,” Geralt demanded, finger in Jaskier’s face so quickly it made him go cross-eyed. Jaskier held up his hands in pure innocence, except for the blood on his hands. “Are you alright?” Geralt asked, concern clear in his voice.

Jaskier realized how the situation must have looked. He was supposed to be just some pansy-ass thirty-something bard that had no knowledge of needing to protect oneself with a blade. Fuck. “Uh,” Jaskier blinked, unsure of what to say. Surely, he’d been able to fake a distressed disposition in front of Geralt before. Those memories decidedly did not meet their cue. “Where’s my lute?” Sure, Jaskier, that was probably what a pansy-ass thirty-something bard with no background in _killing people_ would say. Geralt held his shoulders in his warm hands.

“You just killed a man, Jaskier.” Geralt said slowly. Fuck. Lute-minding was not what Geralt expected. Try again.

“Ahh… Well, yes,” Jaskier said, nodding. “He killed far more people than I have. You can’t possibly lump me in with him,” Geralt rolled his eyes and let him go, pushing him back up on the wall in case he fainted.

“You’re infuriating. I’m going to start a fire, okay?”

“Okay?”

Geralt grunted and took a torch from the wall, gently coaxing Igni into its damp burnt end. A glow grew from it. Jaskier felt a pang at the realization he was naming his motions and actions, explicitly stating his intention, for Jaskier.

Cyprion’s face was gnarled and ugly, blood dripping from his lips even now. His eyes stared up at nothing and his hand still gripped the silver shortsword he’d been threatening Jaskier with just minutes ago. Jaskier steeled himself and willed himself not to think about the implications of this.

How far had he fallen? From abandoning the burning caravan, hiding in Oxenfurt, hiding his identity and what he was, to burning the only memories he had of his family, and now, killing the first familiar face he’d seen in decades? His throat choked up and he felt he might be sick. Just as sick as the corpse beneath him.

“What the fuck?” Geralt whispered, reaching out to pull at the chain around the man’s neck. Jaskier held his breath as link by link, the Viper medallion was revealed.

“He’s a Witcher.” Jaskier whispered. “A Viper.”

“I thought they were all dead.” Geralt said, and the lump in Jaskier’s throat grew. “Who is this? There are no Witcher lords.”

“Who knows, at this point. The Vipers were all wiped out decades ago,” Jaskier bit his tongue at the slip.

“Don’t speak of what you don’t know, bard,” Geralt snapped, not looking at him. Jaskier trembled as Geralt took the medallion and swords from the man. “I’ll toss these off the pier so no one knows. Witchers have it bad enough without everyone knowing they killed humans.” It feels like a slap in the face. “Your lute is with the tavern owner. Go back to the inn.”

Jaskier couldn’t get away fast enough.


	3. Chapter 3

They hit the southeast road at sunrise. Jaskier kept looking back at Cedaris until they made a bend in the road and could no longer see their starting point. It had been a tradition of sorts, how long would they have to go before they were well and truly “on the way”?

Jaskier was lost in thought as he walked. He knew Geralt was angry with him for bringing up Witcher history again. He hadn’t meant to, but he _had_ just killed someone and everything was rife with chaos. He couldn’t sleep the night before, haunted by the waking nightmare of Cyprion’s gurgling, choked laughter. The feel of a blade at his neck, taunts, and almost showing his hand to Geralt, again.

What would Geralt say if he knew the truth? He only thought about it once every few months and only while on the road together, but this wasn’t an infrequent thought in Jaskier’s mind. 

He’d exhausted every possible outcome, most ending in death, heartbreak, being tossed off a mountainside, or more death. Geralt knew just as many ways to kill a man as Jaskier did, so the fatalistic approach wasn’t unjustified.

He didn’t dare to think of what would happen in the best case scenario. Yearning and longing were as familiar to a bard as breathing or performing, but Jaskier tended to let his thoughts run away from him when he did that.

The perfect scenario was this:

_They had just bedded one another. Jaskier had been the perfect lover and blew Geralt’s mind so completely that when Jaskier pushed away his glamour, Geralt would only smile and tilt his head to the side affectionately. He’d ask no questions save for a request for another round in bed, and Jaskier would never have to hide again._

It was utter bullshit.

They had just passed the closest border to Redania by nightfall. The nearest town was still several miles away in either direction, and neither wanted to argue on behalf of pressing on. The silence between them, half-justified as _saving energy while walking,_ reared its ugly head as they set down for camp. “Would you rather I built up the fire?” Geralt asked after clearing his throat.

“No,” Jaskier replied, just as curt and polite. Fucking infuriating. They both turned to their tasks. It felt like the kind moments-- the truce they’d struck in Cedaris-- were ancient history instead of maybe two days old.

The fire was already going when Geralt returned with dinner, but the tense lines in Jaskier’s back belied the agony it took to make it. For the first time, Geralt started to seriously consider the seeds of doubt that had been lying dormant under his anger.

“Why are you so afraid of fire?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier tensed even more, somehow, and fidgeted in his seat. “I’m not afraid of fire,” he denied, “just had a bad experience. Years ago.” Geralt could hear the unspoken “and two weeks ago” clear as day.

“You don’t have to set up the fire if it upsets you,” Geralt offered, trying to ease the tension in Jaskier’s face and body.

“When have you ever let me stop doing something because it _upsets_ me, Geralt?” Jaskier huffed, turning away and taking his lute out of the case.

Geralt did not answer, and Jaskier did not sing that night.

* * *

The dreams were getting worse. They’d morphed once more, away from Geralt taking the surviving Viper texts to burn.Now, Cyprion was there.

_“Easy, Viper,” Cyprion taunted, coughing wetly beneath the fallen beam. The fire raged around them. “Can’t hide your burns and scars for long, he’ll know. He’ll find out.” He began to laugh, blood gurgling from his throat. The harder he laughed, the further the blood sprayed. He felt it, hot on his face—no, not blood. That was the fire, again, licking hot up his ear and jaw._

_And then there was Geralt, charging in through the flames. He held up the swirling Viper medallion in his hands, thrusting it into Jakier’s face. “They were all dead. Don’t speak, they’re all dead, Jaskier.”_

_“Lovely name for a gravestone,” Cyprion rasped._

_“Going to kill you!” Geralt roared._

_“Stop, stop, stop,” he pled._

_“Wish you hadn’t...you'll wish you hadn’t, Viper.”_

_“Why?” Geralt asked, holding a burning book in his hands. The flames licked up him and into his hair, matching the burns on his own face. “Why?”_

_“Geralt, please, I’m sorry!” he cried. “Stop! stop, please!”_

_“Jaskier. Hmmm,lovely name for a gravestone.”_

_“Jaskier, you killed a man. You killed a Witcher. They’re all dead.”_

_“Geralt, please, no.”_

“Jaskier!” He was wrenched from the horrible heat and into the chilling nighttime, hands pinning his shoulders to the ground. He must have been thrashing and screaming again. The tears in his eyes were new.

Jaskier batted Geralt’s hands away before rolling to the side, crawling through the underbrush before vomiting. He choked on his own tears and tried to calm down. He should have known better than to go to bed without drinking himself into oblivion. He returned to camp on shaking legs. Geralt had lit several small candles in lieu of a fire and was waiting with a water skein. Jaskier took it wordlessly and rinsed his mouth out. His whole body shook.

“If there were any creatures around before, your howling has ensured we’re alone for miles, now,” Geralt said.

“Fuck off,” Jaskier snapped, running his hands through his hair repeatedly. He felt the glamour Lita had spelled onto him flickering at the edges. Too many night terrors and it’d dissipate for good. 

“You said my name,” Geralt tried again, after Jaskier’s breathing evened out. “In your dream.”

“Don’t want to fucking talk about it, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice was raspy like sand underfoot.

“We’re going to have to talk about it eventually if it’s either going to be this or carrying you to bed from a bar,” Geralt snapped back. “You don’t-” He stopped, took a breath and started again. “You don’t think I’ll hurt you, do you?”

“Considering it hasn’t even been two weeks since you dangled me over the bloody Pontar just for keeping a few books locked away in a cabinet in a room of a house you were never supposed to be in, I’d say I’m a bit on edge being around you,” Jaskier’s anger was the only thing that forced the words out. The rest of him was too exhausted to put up much else of a fight. Geralt frowned and fought the urge to snap twigs in his hands. “I wasn’t trying to upset you. I never intended anyone’s eyes but my own to lay upon them. I do know about what happened to the Vipers, Geralt. Just because you think I’m a silly fucking bard doesn’t mean I’m not still a bloody professor with thirty years of education.”

The wind left Jaskier’s sails after that.

Geralt was effectively silenced after that. There’s no smart thing to say to the truth besides agreement, and Geralt was much too proud for that.

* * *

The next day was fucking miserable. Jaskier hardly ate any more than he slept, and Geralt hated seeing him wither like this. His condition was most likely worse than he looked, since Geralt now knew of the glamour.

After another few hours of walking, Jaskier looked ready to bed down on the road. Geralt sighed. He always seemed to forget what it was like traveling with Jaskier, too caught up in the excitement of his company— _nope, let’s not even begin to think about that._ “We’ll stay at that town up there.” Geralt said.

It was another few seconds before Jaskier responded. “But it’s still light out.”

“You’re about to drop dead on your feet.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Jaskier grumbled. He said nothing else. Saying things around Geralt always seemed to get him in trouble, especially the past few days. Geralt shook his head. He was still mad about the incident with Lord Marek two nights prior, but he was also still trying to work out exactly how Jaskier had managed such skill with a knife in close quarters combat.

“How long have you been hiding daggers in your boot?” Geralt asked to change the subject.

Jaskier gave a shrug that came off more like a drunken stumble. “Usually whenever I set out to find you. Figured I wouldn’t have silver and steel protection until then, so I had to keep a few blades hidden on me.”

“Blades,” Geralt clarified. “How many are you keeping on you?”

“Come on, Geralt, you know better than to pry. Only ends in tears.” Jaskier stumbled on a camouflaged snakehole and nearly twisted his ankle. “For fucks sake. Really? Going to report this to some council, or whatever.”

“We’re a bit far from councils, or whatever.” Geralt shook his head, amused. Jaskier huffed and stomped ahead.

* * *

“Room and a bath,” Geralt said when they went in. Where there was normally a surly old man waiting to tend to newcomers, a young woman stood instead. She was daydreaming and looking out the only window open in the inn. She hardly acknowledged that Geralt had spoken, or that he had even walked in. She sighed dreamily.

“If you’d rather not share the water, we have a washroom. Cheaper than having it hauled up to your room.” The young woman said, worrying at the edge of a letter. Jaskier’s eyes assessed the whole situation, a slow smile coming to his face.

“Sounds lovely.” Jaskier leaned on the high table she was draped across and looked out the window, where he caught view of a young man working in his front garden. Jaskier placed a few coins on the counter. “Good luck with that one. Tell me the story later.”

All at once, the young woman blushed to the tips of her ears and sputtered, finally realizing she’d been caught yearning. “Of course. Here. Room four. Washroom’s at the end of the hall, give this to the man outside the door and he’ll let you in.” She shoved a bundle into Jaskier’s hands. “W-will you be wanting that bath presently, m’lord?” She adjusted her hair and looked up at the two travelers. “Baths. M’lords.” She corrected herself jerkily.

“Yes,” Geralt answered. “As soon as possible.”

“Won’t be but a minute, then.” She insisted. “We don’t pre-pay rooms so you’ll have to check in this time tomorrow.” The door behind them opened. Jaskier’s smile turned into a feral grin as the man she’d been watching walked in.

“Enjoy!” Jaskier said, even though that was technically her line.

The travelers snickered as they made their way to their room. “It looks like you enjoy seeing young maidens in love.”

“No finer sight, to be sure.,” Jaskier sighed happily. “Young men in love just look silly, but the fairer sex is indeed by most accounts, fairer.” He set down his bags and his lute. “I’m assuming you’ll want the first bath.”

“You’ve assumed right. Settle in, I’ll let you know when I’m done.” Geralt set down his own burden and went to the washroom.

* * *

Jaskier locked the door to their room as soon as Geralt entered the washroom. Instantly, he flung open his pack, unrolling his clothes and supplies. He removed the daggers from his boots, stuffing them in various outfits and pouches. The ones he kept at his sleeves went next, hiding away. Within a few minutes, his person was completely divested of blades and other weaponry. He hastily re-packed his bag and turned over his lute case.

On the back of where the case tapered into the neck, there was a small slit just big enough to wiggle a finger into. Within that nook, there was a small cord of leather to tug through the opening. A length of waxed, recycled lute string was connected to the cord, and slowly pulled itself from beneath the stitches that held the back of the lute case together. When this was pulled far enough, an opening between the seams revealed itself, and within it, lay a small, protected sheath for two short swords.

As tradition dictated, one was silver, and the other steel.

Jaskier slowly undid the closure and slipped a hand inside. A breath he didn’t know he was holding huffed out of his lungs. “Still there,” he muttered. He’d been tense for every minute since seeing Geralt’s hands on Cyprion’s own swords—fangs, really.

He slowly unsheathed the blades, one at a time. He hadn’t used them in decades, but they were still oiled and sharp as the wind. The pommel of the silver sword had a blue sapphire within the hilt, right where the crossguard met the blade. It had been enchanted long before Jaskier had even been alive, and though he treated them with extreme care, the runes that were carved on the stone were barely noticeable anymore.

The steel sword glinted a pale blue-gray in the light. The meteorite it was smelted from had multiple elements within it, and as a result this sword was slightly heavier than a pure steel sword of its size was normally. The gold lines embedded in the handle had caught him so much grief when he’d brought it back to the caravan, but he knew it was the envy of every Viper.

Jaskier held them both in his hands, taking a stance and passing them quickly through the air. They were so sharp that hardly any noise whooshed past him. He smiled at the thrill of holding his fangs in his hands again.

All too quickly, his joy was cut short, hearing the washroom door open again. Geralt’s footsteps led down the hallway once more. With no time to secure the fangs back into the case, Jaskier shoved them haphazardly into the side of his pack. _If you rip my clothes you’re not coming back out of the sheath for a fucking century,_ Jaskier threatened wordlessly.

He attempted to get himself into a comfy situation, but he was much too agitated to fit the expectation of ‘sleepy, about to pass out’ that Geralt was probably expecting. He sighed once for good measure as Geralt attempted to walk back in. The door rattled loudly on the bolt, and Jaskier sprang up to open it for...Geralt, clad in just a towel, still slightly dripping and radiating heat. His clothes were bundled in one hand, the other holding the towel up over his slender hips. Jaskier’s mouth watered a little bit, watching a droplet race down past a scar on Geralt’s ribs. “Done so soon?” Jaskier croaked.

“Couldn’t relax,” Geralt muttered as he pushed past. Jaskier took his leave and left with the other bath token.

* * *

Geralt got an odd feeling when looking around the room. Magic seemed to glimmer in the air, but he suspected it was from Jaskier’s glamour. He’d mentioned it was hastily-done that morning in Oxenfurt, so it wouldn’t be its best. Geralt frowned at the memory. He was a Witcher, he was supposed to be able to spot things like glamours from miles away. Jaskier was a mystery.

His things were also entirely too neat. They hardly had any road dust on them, which Jaskier usually complained about incessantly and did nothing to remedy. But now, Jaskier’s pack, usually so lumpy and unbalanced, lay neatly by the wall obviously well-distributed. Geralt held the pack in his hands, glaring at it like it’d give him answers.

Memories of their conversation just before on the road returned, unbidden, to his mind. He’d tried to stop thinking about what kind of weaponry Jaskier kept on him. He always seemed so carefree; how many daggers could buy that sense of security?

He made to set the bag down, when his hand felt an unfamiliar shape within the normally-soft contents of Jaskier’s bag. Prodding it gently, Geralt determined it was a blade, but much larger than the one Jaskier had used to kill Lord Marek, or whoever that Witcher was in Cedaris.

 _You know better than to pry. Only ends in tears,_ Jaskier’s voice warned him in his head, and yet he still flipped open the top of the pack. Two hilts stuck out of the top. Geralt’s stomach dropped as he pulled them out.

Silver and steel protection, indeed.

* * *

Geralt was seething by the time Jaskier came back from his own bath, looking a little more alive and relaxed than before. All of that ended the moment he saw Geralt sitting on the bed with a veritable cache of his own weapons surrounding him on the coverlet. They were very keenly organized, one half silver, the other steel. In his hands were Jaskier’s fangs.

_This is it. This is the moment Geralt believes me, hears the truth, and fells me with my own blade for it. I’m going to die in a bath towel._

Geralt was still staring at him with an expectant glare.

“I understand the smaller things, but these are Witcher blades, Jaskier,” he hissed.

“Ah, yes, well. You see, it’s actually a—”

“A funny story? Jaskier, you told me you were done lying about Witchers,” Geralt barked.

“I’m not ly—Geralt, I told you I wouldn’t! This is different, this is. You can’t save me all the time,” Of course he’d cow at a moment like this. Geralt was so damned close to killing him, they both knew. “They were a gift from the countess. She knew I was interested and... Yeah.”

“The countess?” Geralt hesitated.

“Countess Mignole. She collects vedyminaica. Witcher things. S’how I knew who you were in Posada. S’how I knew all those things.” His heart was screaming at him to just tell the fucking truth, but he was too much a coward. “I didn’t even show her my notebooks.”

“You shouldn’t have these, Jaskier. This sapphire is bewitched, and the steel on this is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” Geralt held up the swords, the grips on the hits too small for his own massive hands. “I’m going to get rid of these.”

“No!” Jaskier blurted, blocking the door with his body. “I won’t let you. Geralt, please, just put them down.” His heart hammered wildly in his chest. “I’d give up my lute before I’d give up those, and I’ve never fought you before but I would now.”

The vow, the sincere promise Jaskier was whispering in the air swirled around Geralt’s head, trying to poke at his own thoughts regarding Jaskier. Shortswords over Filavandrel’s lute? Fighting him over this? Considering the small armory he kept on his person, that wouldn’t have been too far a stretch for Jaskier. Cedaris had shown he was willing and able to use these blades.

The stand-off continued: the two glaring daggers at one another.

“I’m not leaving without me knowing you know how to use these without killing yourself.”

“I handled myself fine in Cedaris! Against another—against a Witcher, I might add.” Jaskier watched carefully as Geralt apparently ignored the slip-up. Perhaps it would be more difficult for Geralt to find out his identity than he originally thought.

“That was a dagger. These are swords _,_ Jaskier.” Geralt wiggled them for emphasis.

“Yes, I bloody well know they’re swords _,_ Geralt. Now will you give them back, or are you going to be difficult about this? I want to fucking sleep, and you’ve made my bed rather sharp!” Jaskier shoved past him at last, plucking his fangs from Geralt’s hands before the other man could respond. Acting as though that answered any and all queries on the matter, Jaskier scooped up the knives on the bed and deposited them near where his pack had been unceremoniously upended. “I’m leaving these on the floor, do not come near me.”

Geralt made a face and shook his head. “I’m teaching you to spar once we’re on the road again,” he resolved.

Jaskier laughed himself into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

They had to pick up supplies in the morning, so Geralt split the list and gave Jaskier some coin along with his half of the shopping. “Meet back here when you’re done.” Jaskier nodded and walked off into the crowd.

Geralt had wanted to visit Lyria and Rivia for a while, but they had to cross all of Temeria and a nasty mountain range to get there. The more distance they put between themselves and Cedaris, the better. News of the late Lord Marek hadn’t reached them just yet, but if they outran it perhaps it’d be old hat by the time they were in the area once more.

“I hate Vizima,” Jaskier had said, when Geralt had spoken his intentions.

“We’ll avoid Vizima, take the southern roads. There’s a few well-traveled passes through Mahakam on the southern part of the range.” Jaskier nodded, considering this.

“Take about a week to get to the summit, won’t it?” he said. “We’ll need supplies long before we even get there. Roach’s saddlebags aren’t looking as full as they normally do.” Geralt got the feeling Jaskier was just enjoying being right at this point, so they’d set up the list and split up for that day’s market.

Geralt did not head for the armorer like he’d told Jaskier he would. After covering his own ass and getting some of the other supplies, he donned his cloak and took to the markets again, trying to find and observe Jaskier. Most of his list was near a stablehands’ stall, and Geralt found him there easily. He quietly exchanged a few words with the merchant, pushed his hair back from his forehead, and the look in the merchant’s eyes went glassy for a moment before they finished the transaction. Geralt could see that Jaskier had cut a huge deal on feed for Roach, and even had a few carefully-packaged sugarcubes in there for good measure. How had that happened? Jaskier couldn’t convince him of anything on a good day, and yet he’d managed to get the surly merchant to hand over his wares almost for free.

Before Geralt could pursue Jaskier through the market square, the bard had disappeared like smoke. Pursing his lips, Geralt looked around as subtly as he could. There wasn’t a trace of Jaskier about, save for one stable merchant kicking himself.

He took to a stationery shop, most likely the next item on his list. His attempt at stealth was not successful, and he ran almost directly into Jaskier, catching himself with hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, holding him in place.

“Ah!” Jaskier yelped, and for a split second, Geralt watched his face shimmer away, angry red burns revealed beneath his right jaw and ear. His eyes shone like the glint off of the short sword’s sapphire, pupils splitting irises almost in half, and his hair even flashed a shade darker. It took Geralt’s breath away, watching the glamour flinch like that. The glamour righted itself again, and the vision ended. “Geralt, you’re here! Thought you’d be at the armory much longer.” Jaskier swallowed roughly and shook himself from Geralt’s grip. Geralt couldn’t speak, still caught off-guard like he was.

“You have burns on your face.” Geralt said, stupidly.

Jaskier shifted uncomfortably, drawing in a hissing breath. “Yeah. Well. Sometimes vanity is only half the battle. Don’t think about it.” It was a subtle attempt at a plea, something Jaskier had been doing a lot of, recently.

“How long ago?” Geralt asked, softer.

“Ages.” Jaskier replied, just as softly.

“You know I don’t—I don’t care about how you look, right?” Geralt said, and Jaskier grew tense and defensive again.

“You’re not the only one who would have to live with it, Geralt. I’d rather you didn’t know. It’d just make things complicated.” Geralt was somewhat bewildered by his choice of words. Jaskier cleared his throat. “Are you finished with your half of the list? I was just going to head over to the stables and load Roach up.” Geralt finally noticed the massive bundle of horse feed and notebooks in his arms. “They’re blank. You can check, if you want.”

“No. Go. I’ll meet you later.” Geralt took a step back, observing the strange glimmer at the edges of Jaskier’s outline. It shone like rain hitting a roof, making him look fuzzy around the edges.

Jaskier took off without another word, and Geralt thought of bright blue sapphire eyes the rest of the day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what y'all have been waiting for!! <3 Thank you for your kind comments!

The journey through Temeria was made easier thanks to Jaskier traveling on horseback, rather than walking like he usually did. They covered more ground together, but Geralt missed the way Jaskier would walk about beneath him, chattering about nature and local politics and art. He hadn’t heard that kind of chatter in months, long before the incident with the djinn.

Jaskier still suffered from night terrors, screaming awake in the dead of night. He was almost falling asleep on his horse from how long he tried to stay awake. Geralt had offered to brew him some sort of sleep aid, but Jaskier refused. “I’d rather be able to wake up and not remain trapped in my own imagination.”

They’d left it at that, but Geralt had taken to sleeping closer to Jaskier so he could wake the man from his nightmares before they reached the point of screaming.

Jaskier had hidden his blades again, and Geralt honestly did not want to know where. There had been so much silver and steel, Geralt would have gladly taken a few off his hands, but Jaskier seemed oddly protective over the pieces.

They avoided Vizima, for reasons that started and ended with one Triss Merigold. Jaskier normally wouldn’t have even bothered prying the details from the White Wolf, but Geralt instead gave the story freely.

Jaskier seemed rather adept at writing in his notebook from the back of a horse.

He also promised that it was just to inspire songs, and Geralt would give final approval to any ballads of his likeness.

“King Foltest. I’ve heard of him. A man who certainly values family, that one,” Jaskier muttered. Geralt, surprising even himself, barked out a laugh.

Jaskier’s smile eased a bit. The glamour shivered a little, revealing a pretty pink blush peeking between dark brown hair.

“I don’t mean to bring it up again, but why would you glamour your hair?” Geralt said as they let the horses drink from a nearby stream.

Jaskier sighed and shook his head. “It was this whole thing at the time. No one would trust anybody with dark hair after a family of murderers claimed their hair gave them power. Anybody remotely resembling that was treated with suspicion. Couldn’t make myself go back, even after all these years.” Geralt knew the story was familiar, but couldn’t pinpoint why.

“For what it’s worth, my hair lost any color it had when I was still going through the Changes, and I’m still treated just as suspiciously wherever I go, no matter the year.” Geralt soaked in the warm sunlight alongside Jaskier. The grass was soft beneath them, and the hill they were resting on was free of any rocks beneath their backs. It was more than either could ask for.

“I know it probably brings you pain to even think of it, but for what it’s worth, I like your hair,” Jaskier sighed, obviously comfortable here.

“Thank you, Jaskier.”

* * *

They’re nearly past the edge of a small trail through a dense forest when the horses stopped. Jaskier looked to Geralt, who had his gaze on his medallion, jumping rapidly on his chest.

Jaskier shook his hands, where the buzzing from his rings made it feel electric and numb all at once. Geralt’s eyes flicked to Jaskier’s motion, and had a question formed on his lips when a loud roar sounded from the treeline, followed by a dozen clawed feet scrabbling along the forest floor.

“Geralt,” Jaskier gulped. They both dismounted and Jaskier took hold of the reins. Geralt’s eyes were still on Jaskier’s hand, with the rings. His own hand shot out to take it, and at the feeling of the buzzing vibrations, the same pitch as his medallions, he dropped.

Geralt’s mind was whirling, memories of the past several weeks flooding his thoughts.

Fleeing for ‘business in Oxenfurt’, business which was repairing a broken glamour which covered old burns, scars, eyes too blue and cat-like. Cavorting with ‘very bespoke herbalists’ who also provided glamours to hide his visage. The books in Jaskier’s handwriting, and the stories too personal and authentic to be false. Finding a murderer and drawing him outside, getting him to confess, and killing him before anybody could blink. The merchant at the border, stunned as if by magic. Slipping through crowds and disappearing like morning mist. Screaming, screaming nightmares. The silver, the steel, the short swords hidden from Geralt’s knowledge.

_ (Must have used two weapons.) _

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s panicked voice came again, as the beast from the treeline stepped toward them. “There’s a barghest queen who really wants to tarry with a Witcher, right about now.” Geralt was quiet, looking at Jaskier again.

The glamour was flickering even more, now. It must have tied itself to Jaskier’s emotions, and the more he was feeling, the less it hid of him. His hair flicked almost black-brown, then back to the soft tawny the glamour provided. His eyes flashed, pupils blown wide with apprehension.

_ (Couldn’t make myself go back, even after all these years.) _

_ (I don’t think anyone at the Crab and Garfish will want to see my face. Got in a little fight there.) _

_ (All I can ask is that we please, please go somewhere else.) _

(Geralt remembered Vesemir sitting at his bedside, after the attack on Kaer Morhen.  _ “There were two attacks. One here, and another in Kerack.” _

_ “What’s in Kerack?” _

_ “There were Viper School graduates and initiates, traveling together as a caravan. They were attacked by the same group who attacked us.” _

_ “Did any survive?” _

_ “Not from what I’ve heard.” _ )

(The lord in Cedaris,  _ Couldn’t get rid of the burns the first time round?) _

_ (The Vipers were all wiped out decades ago.) _

_ (I’d give up my lute before I’d give up those, and I’ve never fought you before but I would now.) _

_ (I handled myself fine in Cedaris! Against another—against a Witcher.) _

_ (He’s a Witcher. A Viper.) _

Jaskier was...

“A Witcher?” Geralt asked, almost in a dream. The barghest was nearly at the road, now, and the horses were screaming and bucking, trying to get away.

“Yes! A bloody—oh, for fucks sake. Sod it all.” Suddenly, Jaskier was going for his lute—no, his lute case, tearing open the side seam by the neck. So that’s where he’d put the short swords.

His hands flexed around the grip as he took a few steps toward the beast, dropping into a defensive stance. It took Geralt’s breath away to see his traveling companion of sixteen years geared to fight. Fight a beast, like a…

“A Witcher?”

“Geralt will you please shut the fuck up and  _ help _ me.” Jaskier had hardly said the end of his sentence before the barghest moved to jump onto Roach. Jaskier ran forward, and with a shout, jumped onto the barghest’s back.

His legs scrambled a little, trying to find a proper foothold on the beast, and once he did, he drove both blades into the base of the barghest’s skull. The moment it collapsed, several others in the pack emerged, and Jaskier groaned.

“Fifty bloody years, Geralt! Fifty years I’ve been hiding,” Jaskier snarled, dodging a flank attack. His left hand slashed out with the blue-steel blade, severing an artery in the beast’s neck, before finishing it with the silver in his right hand.

Sure explained the ambidexterity.

Geralt was still stuck in a trance, at least holding onto their horses to keep them from riding off.

Jaskier mounted another large barghest, and for a few seconds, the glamour was all but gone. All that was left of it was a patch of tawny hair and even that was flicking away. Like this, with barghest blood on his face, his jewel-like eyes gleamed even brighter. He sunk his fangs into the neck again, like the first he felled. He rolled from the falling body with a grunt. “You wouldn’t have believed me if I told you.” He shrugged, and the image of Jaskier using short swords to gesture would forever be seared on Geralt’s memory. “Kill me yourself, after this. The Queen can’t be far.” Jaskier took off into the woods without another word.

Geralt finally seized control of his body again, casting Axii to calm the horses before unsheathing his sword and running after Jaskier. “Jas?” he called, once the forest grew too thick to easily follow his trail.

(wasJaskierevenhisnamewhoisheaWitcheraWitcheraWitcher)

A roar, a clank, and a shout drew his attention to the left. Geralt burst through the underbrush to find Jaskier on his back, one shortsword dug in the Queen Barghest’s side, and the other a few scant inches out of reach. He couldn’t reach for it, lest he let go of the jaw he was prying open and away from his face. He had a nasty gash on his forehead.

At the moment Geralt broke through the foliage, the magic from the glamour popped away, and there were no more secrets between them. All that was happening was a beast was trying to kill his very best friend in the whole wide world.

It was the easiest kill Geralt had ever made.

When the barghest’s corpse was rolled off of Jaskier at long last, they just looked at one another, breathing hard. Jaskier had barghest blood streaked across his clothes and face, up into his hair, matted almost black against his head. Geralt didn’t have as much viscera on him as Jaskier did, but considering he’d killed a Queen, and Jaskier only killed three regular barghests, he’d say he was ahead.

“You’re rusty, Witcher.”

* * *

They found a stream to clean off in. There was no reward for defending oneself on the road, so the barghest corpses were dragged just behind the treeline before they searched for a stream to clean off in.

All in all, they managed to make it through about ten minutes without talking about it. Jaskier expected less, and a swift death, and a few dying curses. Better than he expected.

Jaskier washed off the guts from his arms. “Gonna just burn this. Fuck it. No wonder you wear black. Forgot all this,” Jaskier muttered, tugging off his destroyed clothes and tossing them in a pile on the bank. Geralt watched him, observing new scars and marks now that the glamour was gone.

The bruises and lesions from the djinn were on full display. Had he not exacerbated the glamour, they definitely would have healed on their own with no one the wiser, like Jaskier said. The burns on his jaw and ear extended down his neck and on his collarbone. They looked very old, and obviously hadn’t been treated, only covered up. He quietly put the puzzle pieces together, slower this time.

The reactions to the fire made more sense. He must have gotten used to it after so many years of forgetting about the scars. Geralt certainly knew that feeling. After the djinn took his glamour, he must have relapsed into those memories all at once, and then.

And then...

He’d thrown his life away into the flames, because Geralt had demanded it of him.

Geralt had never wanted to fall on his own sword more than he did right then.

* * *

Jaskier was trying very hard not to ask Geralt what he was thinking. He’d never seen the White Wolf so still and quiet, even when he was meditating. He dutifully washed the blood from the skin that he hadn’t seen in years. There were dozens of tiny cuts on his hands, long since scarred and healed over. The damned Queen Barghest had gotten a good bite in on his wrist, but it wasn’t deep.

“Do you have that little sal—oh, we’re doing this now, hello.” Jaskier hardly flinched at the feeling of a blade pressed to his neck, one of Geralt’s. Easy to pick out, as it was Geralt holding the blade to his neck.

“You lied to me. For sixteen years, you lied,” Geralt growled.

Jaskier sighed. “What was I supposed to do? You haven’t exactly proven yourself open to the idea in these last few weeks. I mean really, if any Witcher kept a journal, it’d be me, right?”

“But you’re so…” Geralt shook his head.

“Useless? Helpless? Not dead?” Jaskier bit out sarcastically. “Yes, I know what you bloody well think of me, Geralt. What bard knows how to protect himself? I was kept alive for fifty years by pretending to be Julian Pankrantz, the dandy little bard who sang songs that bewitched hearts and minds alike. Surely you know about sacrificing pride for your own skin.” His eyes were full of fire and anger, blazing holes into Geralt’s own. They were still breathtakingly beautiful, and Geralt was having a hard time separating his own feelings for Jaskier and the incredible attraction he was feeling for the man beneath his blade.

“You used Axii on that merchant.”

“Oh, stalking me as well as going through my belongings, now, are we?” Jaskier laughed tonelessly, rolling his eyes. “This. This is why I didn’t want to fucking tell you, Geralt. Lost my fucking entire life and my best friend in one go.”

Geralt stepped back, removing the blade from his neck. He still didn’t understand why Jaskier would have kept this from him the entire time. “Who else knows?”

“Obviously you, and your murderous streak. Staff at the Oxenfurt place. Definitely the Countess. Lita, the sorceress who makes my glamours. Coupl’a dead Witchers, oh, including Lord Marek, as you knew him.”

“You knew him.”

“His name was Cyprion. I knew the killer must have been a Witcher, and I knew even more that he must have been a Viper. As far as I knew, I was the only one who survived the attack in 1270.” Jaskier rubbed at his neck, sore from the knife’s pressure on the djinn bruises. Geralt looked at the marks with a horrified pang.

“That’s how you got the drop on him.”

Jaskier nodded. He was starting to close himself off, frowning and letting his shoulders sag. “Well?” he said after a while.

“Well what?” Geralt said. Jaskier pulled his river-washed swords from the back of his trousers, and threw them, points-first, into the ground. He fell to his knees, one by one.

“You going to kill me now? I’ve answered your questions, Geralt. Just do it fast. I can’t stand to have you look at me like that anymore.”

* * *

The trip abruptly changed course, turning north out of Temeria. Geralt had offered a temporary truce, if Jaskier agreed to go to Kaer Morhen and at least share whatever knowledge he had with the master of the keep. Jaskier was in no position to deny Geralt. Was he really ever in that situation to begin with?

After the third time Geralt’s brand of “stabby questioning” happened, Jaskier shouted at him that he wasn’t going to lie.

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I want you to fucking  _ trust _ me again, you blaggard!” He hadn’t shouted at someone this much in a long while, and one of the scars on his jaw twinged like hell. Jaskier stalked off, away from the camp. “I’ll fucking catch fucking dinner, you fucking stupid fucking Witcher!” Jaskier shouted behind him.

Sure enough, he came back with several rabbits, and presented them to a rather embarrassed Geralt of Rivia. Jaskier cast Igni on the kindling pile and tossed his sodden clothes on the pile when it burned high enough. It stole Geralt’s breath again. They prepared and ate their dinner in silence.

“I do,” Geralt murmured, after they’d gotten rid of the bones and settled on their bedrolls. “Trust you.”

“You’ll forgive me if it certainly doesn’t fucking feel like it,” Jaskier huffed.

“I’ve never been through something like this, Jaskier. This isn’t—this isn’t something I’m exactly used to.”

“Being friends with another Witcher?” Jaskier snarked.

“You know what I mean, Jas. I mean it. I—I’m sorry for treating you like this. How I have. Gods, in Oxenfurt, I had no idea—”

“Don’t finish that sentence if you want to live til morning,” Jaskier sighed, no heat behind it. “I’m trying not to think about it while I’m awake. Dream about it well enough.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say to that, and took Vesemir’s sage advice, and said nothing.

* * *

Within a few days, they reached a shoddy-looking town at the base of the Mahakam mountains. Jaskier suggested they cross the range further north than here.

“Why? We’ve already gone plenty north, we’re already here, it’s faster if we go now.”

“This is the Silent Pass, Geralt.”

“What’s so bad about it?”

“I don’t know, they won’t tell me. Ironic, the good people of Silent Pass Village are rather quiet. They also scattered at the very sight of my lovely face.” Jaskier’s bitterness ate at Geralt’s heart, each slow beat another gnaw from guilt’s jaw.

“Hm.”

“Yeah, hm.” Jaskier shook his head and leaned on the wall. “We might need to just set out tomorrow morning. Who knows how long the pass goes on? I don’t want to be caught out there longer than I have to be.”

“Come now, Witcher, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Must’ve left it in my other bag,” Jaskier grumbled, itching at his face with his sleeve.

“I’ve got something for that,” Geralt offered hesitantly. One definite perk about this whole ordeal was that he didn’t have to worry about dragging Jaskier to a human healer whenever things went awry; field medicine would work fine and Geralt wouldn’t feel like an anxious mother hen.

He got the feeling he would feel the same way no matter whether Jaskier was a human or a Witcher.

* * *

They grabbed two rooms, for once, at the inn in Silent Pass Village. The tavern was obviously very quiet, and would not want any music that night. All orders were spoken in whispers. “What do you think they’re whispering for?” Jaskier asked after sitting down to eat. “I’ve heard—well, not heard _ ,  _ but I’m guessing it has something to do with the mountains. They watch them like they’re going to grow legs and a head and come smash them all.”

Geralt nodded in agreement. The town had a very strange demeanor. “Jaskier, do you think maybe we should share the room?” Geralt looked very strange, almost constipated, as he said it. “You still haven’t really gotten better at the night terrors.”

Jaskier flexed his hands before settling them into fists. His emotions had always been very strong, even through the Changes. He took a deep breath. “You’re probably right. You’ve been very kind to keep waking me up before I holler down a whole forest.” Jaskier, though he was a Witcher, hadn’t meditated in almost three decades, too used to sleeping like the supposed human he was. Old habits.

Geralt nodded and sat back. That was decided, then.

“Just don’t go through my things again.”

* * *

Jaskier tried his best to clear his mind before going to sleep, but his mind was grasping at the past, and what that meant for the future.

The Countess Mignole was getting on in years, and both Julian Pankrantz and Jaskier the Bard were too famous for him to get another glamour to cover his identity. Was this the moment Jaskier put the mask down for good? No more forging documents, no more pretending at being a viscount for a place that hasn’t existed in several hundred years, no more charming his way through courts just for a chance at a chance to relax.

He considered Geralt, who was already asleep in bed beside him. He knew what it was like to be a Witcher with a bad reputation, and had done his best to remedy that, if not for Geralt, then for all of his slain family. Kaer Morhen would give him an opportunity to see if it was even a good option.

He’d seen how Geralt regarded working with other Witchers. He was the White Wolf, and the only thing he loathed more than monsters was working with other capable people. He’d always feared the day Geralt would throw him aside for good. He feared it like a child was scared of the dark, he feared it so much it stopped his heart some days. It had almost happened so many times in the last month that Jaskier almost went mad in suspense.

The dreams certainly played into the fears Jaskier was harboring.

_ The fire was dimmer, now. He’d replaced Cyprion beneath the beam, and it was impossible to get it off himself without help. Fire licked up his cheek and ear. He could hear, could feel his own skin crackling and burning. He had to get up, he had to save the books from the fire. _

_ Geralt burst in, Jaskier’s fangs in his hands. He looked down on him. “Poor, weak Witcher. Can’t even kill a barghest on your own,” he sneered nastily. _

_ “Geralt, please, help me. It’s too heavy!” Jaskier struggled, and coughed. Blood jumped past his lips, and back down, choking him in the same sharp gurgle that Cyprion had laughed around. Geralt impassively threw his weapons into the flames next to him. The sharp pain in his chest made him cry out in protest. Geralt wouldn’t, he had promised. He knew how much they meant to him. Did he not care? _

_ “You already know I’m not going to help you. A good Witcher helps himself.” Geralt took the texts from the shelf they were on, and tossed them into the fire behind him. “You didn’t think I’d actually keep my promise to a bad Witcher and a liar, did you?” _

Jaskier gulped in the air as his eyes flew open, like there was no air left in the room. He whined in panic as he took in the weight over his hips, on his shoulders. The beam, the beam was still there, he was on  _ fire,  _ and—

“Jaskier, breathe. You’re safe, you’re safe.” That voice, so warm and so close to his bad ear, soothed the fire in his head. His scarred, warped skin tickled with the soft hair brushing over it.

His shoulders and hips were released, and Jaskier immediately buried his face into Geralt’s chest, the same way he’d done so many nights ago, in Oxenfurt. Geralt's arms came around his smaller frame and held him steady. “I’ve got you, Jas. Just breathe, it’s okay.” Geralt murmured, stroking his hair. It was a bit longer than the glamour showed, and Geralt hated to admit he liked it. He soothed Jaskier out of his nightmare like he’d done several times in the last few weeks. It was becoming commonplace, but Geralt wished he could hold Jaskier like this without the hurt of seeing Jaskier scared out of his mind. “You’re safe.” He reminded the man in his arms.

Jaskier remained quiet until his breathing evened out, and the trembling in his body stopped. He pushed back from Geralt reluctantly and looked up at him. They did not speak, but shared an understanding in that moment. Geralt would always keep him safe, no matter if he could do it himself or not.

They dozed a little bit longer before the sun rose and they readied the horses, setting out into the Silent Pass.

The horses were the only thing that made noise as they made their way through the sleepy town. A girl watched them wordlessly from the threshold of a sturdy-looking house. She slowly held up one finger as Jaskier looked at her. She pressed that finger to her lips, and it sent a chill down Jaskier’s spine.

Probably just the lack of sleep.

* * *

Geralt managed not to ask about the dream for a few hours, at least. He tended only to ask whenever Jaskier had cried out his name, which was every time, and very annoying, also every time.

“Could you leave off of it for one damn day, Geralt? I don’t want to talk about it here. The rocks give me a bad feeling.” He swallowed down the memory of the girl from the village, shushing them.

Geralt conceded, and didn’t speak again until they reached a rather large pile of rocks blocking the road. “Not much of a pass, is it,” Geralt muttered.

“We can go up that side if we go slow.” Jaskier pointed out a small opening between boulders, and they forged ahead.

“I don’t know how I didn’t see it ahead of time. Your instincts are very well-honed,” Geralt said as they made their way back down to the center of the pass.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Geralt. You’re not the bad Witcher here,” Jaskier muttered, looking up at the steep inclines on both sides of them. They looked ready to tumble at any moment. Jaskier almost wished they would, so they wouldn’t have these kinds of conversations anymore.

“You’re not a bad Witcher, Jas. You’re just a littleout of practice.” Geralt winced even as he said it.

“You couldn’t lie then, and you sure as hell can’t lie to me now, Geralt. Also you  _ sat _ on me!” Jaskier snapped, the sound carrying up and out of the pass.

“I’m not lying to you! I never have,” Geralt protested, matching Jaskier in volume. This set Jaskier off.

“Oh really, never lied to me? Remember the thing in Arcsea Manor with the wyvern? You didn’t want me going up there with you and you told me it was a wild dog. A wild dog someone put up on the fucking roof of a castle.”

“I was trying to keep you alive!” Geralt exclaimed, indignant. “You’ve never complained about not being mauled before, Jaskier. Are you sure you want to advocate for your early death right now?”

“I’m not advocating for anything, I’m just pointing out that you  _ lied _ to me—”

“It was a white lie—”

“It was a lie all the same, Geralt! Not to mention all the other shitty things you’ve done and somehow to write off as ‘the right bloody thing to do’.”

“Like what.”

“Like what? Oh!” Jaskier scoffed, looking at Geralt with insulted bewilderment. “Going through my bloody personal life enough times to ruin my long-kept identity? Ring any bells, Geralt? I still don’t know how I’m going to rebuild my life, did you know that? You’ve done a great job of butchering that to pieces.”

“That’s not fucking true, Jaskier,” Geralt shouted. Perhaps the ‘butcher’ bit was a toe too far over the line. “Nobody else fucking knows about this besides a handful of Witchers, a sorceress, and an old crone in Oxenfurt. You can jump off this wagon you’ve hitched yourself to at any time, my friend.”

“And that! That too!”

“That  _ what?!” _

“The friend thing! You have not once called me your friend save pain of fucking death and it is rather insulting, Geralt! How dare you call me your friend now, in the middle of a godsdamned—”

Whatever noun Jaskier was going to say was cut off rather abruptly by the loud crack of a rock from on high tumbling down, with several thousand more behind it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I previously vomited forty hours of linguistic research into [another fic where Jaskier is practically fluent in Elder Speech, or Hen Linge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22674520/chapters/54195700). The song in this chapter is translated at the bottom of the page so don't freak out when you see quasi-Welsh-German-Italian words about three-quarters down. Thanks loves~

The Mahakam Mountains, like most mountain ranges, were formed millions of years ago, and really hadn’t done much since they’d settled down between what would eventually be the countries of Lyria and Rivia, and Temeria. Far from any kind of volcanic activity, the Mahakam Mountains were rich in ore and other rock-hewn materials, and dwarves had dug deep through the range for thousands of years, and discovered several things about the surrounding environment.

The first was that while exceptionally heavy, the rocks that made up the mountain from summit to peak were porous and brittle. This helped in mining efforts, but everyone knew to keep alert, lest the mountain show signs of toppling down upon them.

The second was that the mountains seemed to have some kind of personality to them. People of the Continent didn’t know much about physics or what exactly had happened when monsters and magic started showing up, so they were still mostly guessing. But those who lived in Mahakam knew to treat the mountains with respect. The mountains appreciated this, in their own way.

When the Conjunction of the Spheres happened a scant 1,500 years ago, the mountains shook with an intensity the country had never seen. A pass had opened up between two large peaks, split down to the earth. With the new area exposed, seemingly leading through the mountain range in a direct path, many travelers and merchants tried their hand at traversing it.

None succeeded the first few hundred times.

The dwarves who lived in the mountain warned the humans living in settlements at the base that they’d have to take precautions while traveling through, for the narrow canyon that came to be called Silent Pass was still technically within the mountain. Thick veins of silver, gold, and granite tempted any who walked through. To mine it would be to sign your own death warrant, and the sentence was a stoning most brutal. To speak while within it at anything louder than a whisper would be inviting the wrath of the mountain to rain down upon you.

Geralt and Jaskier did not know this.

Geralt had always taken a more southern route through the mountains, and never this particular one. Jaskier was not usually this far away from a city. They were both out of their depth. Witchers usually didn’t have to deal with semi-sentient bewitched mountains prone to murderous rockfalls, after all.

The mountains, on the other hand, had never dealt with emotionally-stunted, sexually repressed Witchers passing through it. The mountains just wanted some peace and quiet, after that whole deal with the Conjunction of the Spheres.

“And that! That too!”

“That  _ what?!” _

“The friend thing! You have not once called me your friend save pain of fucking death and it is rather insulting, Geralt! How dare you call me your friend now, in the middle of a godsdamned—”

The mountain had had quite enough by this point. With a shudder of its summit, a few small rocks which were supposed to serve as a warning shush accidentally triggered a chain reaction, sending hundreds of medium-to-large boulders down the side toward the two unlucky travelers.  _ Oh well, _ the mountain thought.  _ I’ve been wanting to shed a few pounds recently anyway. _

“Ride!” Geralt shouted over the growing clatter. It was a constant roll of thunder above them, and heading too fast to even think twice about. Jaskier and Geralt spurred their horses on, heading through the pass at breakneck speed.

Geralt took the lead, Roach flying across uncertain land beneath him. They both kept low to their mounts as they went, the earth shaking violently beneath the horses’ hooves.

The other half of Silent Pass was beginning to tremble and shudder now. Rocks as large as their hands flew through the air in every direction. Jaskier shouted as one crashed into his shoulder, and he lost feeling down to his wrist. “Keep going!” he urged.

It was hard to hear the other man over the roaring clatter of rocks all about them. Geralt’s face was almost in Roach’s mane, urging her faster through the chaos. Rocks pelted his head and shoulders, and he gritted his teeth against it, eyes wildly scanning their path for a safe exit route.

Jaskier watched in horror, a scream caught in his throat, as a massive stone tumbled down the side, and struck Geralt in the head, rendering him unconscious atop Roach. The mare screamed at the sudden change atop her back, and slowed. They weren’t nearly out of danger, though. Jaskier urged his horse faster, repeatedly shouting Geralt’s name in his panic. When it was clear Geralt wasn’t going to wake up in time for him to regain control of his horse and ride out of there, Jaskier made a decision.

Jaskier prayed some god was watching them, took ahold of Roach, and yanked both horses to a stop, thrusting his hands upward in the crossed-wrist sign of Heliotrope, linking at the pinkies and spreading his fingers wide—like rays of the sun, petals of a sunflower.

He hadn’t cast this sign since before he fled Kerack. He always thought a sharp mind and logic were a better defense over magic, but rocks weren’t going to listen to logic or words anytime soon. The magic swirled around his wrists in a bright yellow and silver shield that extended to protect the two and their horses from physical harm. His arm was already numb, so he couldn’t exactly feel the strength leeching from him, but as more boulders smashed and bounced off of the shimmering shield, nausea built in Jaskier’s gut like he’d felt when he had broken a leg eighty years prior. He shouted against the feeling, urging more magic into the protection field and willing the heaviest boulders to bounce away.

Geralt slumped against him, balance lost. Something clicked in Jaskier’s head, and blood rushed from Jaskier’s nose a moment later. As he shouted again, some even got into his teeth. His ears were ringing and most likely bleeding as well. His vision tunneled as more boulders stopped against the shield and scattered around them. The horses were still frenzied, anxiously stepping around where they’d stopped.

Finally—finally—the thunder ceased, settling once more. Jaskier was sure his arms were fit to be amputated from how much magic he’d called on to protect himself and Geralt. “Fuck!” Jaskier shouted, blood and spit flying out of his mouth. He cried out as he released the shield, letting actual sunlight in again.

He felt as though he’d aged about a hundred more years in those few seconds. Geralt was still unconscious, but breathing. Jaskier whined as he moved his useless arm onto the pommel, and managed to lash the unconscious Witcher to Roach’s withers one-handed. He swore again and looked forward. There were a few precarious rocks set to topple before them.

A weak Aard left his right hand, and he groaned as his frayed nerves crackled with sensation. The rocks gently descended to the ground, and cleared the path. He rasped out, “Come on,” and the horses moved for them.

The mountain watched them pass, impressed that they were still remotely alive.

* * *

At the end of Silent Pass, Jaskier wept at the sight of trees again. It had only been a few hours, but Geralt hadn’t woken, and feeling in his arm had only returned a little. He considered grabbing one of Geralt’s healing potions from his bag, but Jaskier wasn’t sure if his body would react positively, after going so long without anything similar. There wasn’t a town awaiting them, but Jaskier still led them into the woods. It must have been hours from sunset, but they needed somewhere to rest.

Working one-handed, the other flopping like a dead fish, Jaskier managed to get Geralt down off Roach, after she’d knelt to the ground. Jaskier tugged the larger man into a clearing and looked over the gash that he’d gotten when that damned rock had struck him. He went through Geralt’s bags and sobbed when he found a bottle of Swallow. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

No sooner had he tipped half into his own mouth and the rest into Geralt’s, a low growl from the treeline sounded.

“Oh, not  _ now,” _ Jaskier groaned, getting to his feet. His swords were in a makeshift sling around his shoulders, now, and he unsheathed the silver one without hesitation. A werebubb, about the size of a child, walked through the brush and Jaskier lowered his sword. He sighed. “Please do not kill me and my friend, that would really ruin our day.”

“No kill.” The werebubb said. They looked between Geralt and Jaskier. “Dead?”

“No, just resting.” Jaskier stepped protectively over Geralt’s unconscious form. “If I give you some food, will you and your friends stay away?”

The werebubb regarded him silently for a moment before nodding. Jaskier’s arm was starting to regain feeling, and had him gritting his teeth in pain. Damn, Geralt’s Swallow worked fast. He’d have to see if there was another in the pack that they could split. He pulled out some wrapped rations of meat and fruit and left enough that they could use to get to the next town. He set the bundles down on the floor and backed away, resuming his stance over Geralt.

The werebubb scrambled up, taking the food and holding it to its chest like a babe. “Witcher?” they asked, confused. “No kill?”

“No, you’re hungry, not murderous. And we’re much too disadvantaged to do much more than ask for mercy.” Jaskier hoped the creature would understand his higher speech style, but they seemed to understand.

“Go, at morning. Sleep safe now.” Jaskier nodded. “Clora bother bubbs away.”

“Thank you, Clora. We’ll leave when he’s better.” Without another word, the werebubb slipped back into the trees, away from them.

Jaskier rifled through Geralt’s pack and found another Swallow. He drank it carefully, this time, holding Geralt’s head in his lap when he gave the unconscious man the other half. He didn’t choke, thankfully. They were still hours off from sunset, and Jaskier didn’t think he could start a fire until then. Jaskier stood up, trying to get to their water pouches. Geralt would want water.

His body began to shake and his vision swam as Swallow took full effect. It felt like drinking it for the very first time. He idly realized he’d dropped to his knees, and blinked slowly, trying to shake the blur. The blur won, and his body fell the rest of the way into the soft grass.

* * *

This dream is different, _ he thought. Gone were the fires of his nightmares, the bloodshed, the shouting. There was only blessed silence, soft wind in the treetops above him. Someone was petting his hair. He felt refreshed, clean. He looked up. The woman shifted between three forms: youthful, adult, and elderly. He knew her name, but: “My Lady?” _

_ “Hush, Jaskier. Rest,” She cooed at him. “Thank you for saving Geralt, and sparing the hungry creature,” The Goddess said. “I give you a blessing, my child.” Her smile felt like sunshine after a cold rain. She pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s head, and ran a hand over his shoulder. The pain he had forgotten was there, had gone for good. _

_ “Please, Melitele,” he implored. “Bless him, not me. He—he isn’t a coward.” _

_ “I see no cowards here.” She shook her head with a soft expression. “There’s not a Witcher here who is a coward now, or any time.” He choked up, believing her despite everything within him screaming to the contrary. _

_ “Thank you, my Lady,” he whispered. “I still cannot accept your blessing, if you are to bestow one, please, give it—” _

_ “Geralt received my blessing many years ago,” she said conspiratorially. “You have been a difficult mortal to track, Jaskier, or else I would have crossed you off my list long ago.” _

_ “Didn’t know gods kept lists.” _

_ “My dear, do you think us so immutable that you did not eventually rub off on us? The hardest part of being a god is believing in myself.” He laughed, joyful, in her arms. Her smile was every star in the summer sky. “I think you should start acting a little more godly, Jaskier. You are worth more to him than you know or want to believe.” Her hand traced a lovely path down his chin. The ever-present pain in his jaw ceased, forever. _

_ “I don’t think my heart is finished being angry with him,” he admitted. _

_ “Well,” she said, gently laying his head down on the soft grass again. “At least you know you will forgive him soon.” She stood. “Don’t leave him in suspense for too long, Jaskier. He has the heart of a child.” She cast a smile over to Geralt, waved a hand, and began to shimmer away slowly. _

_ “Thank you, my Lady.” _

_ “Thank you, Jaskier.” _

_ She was gone. _

* * *

Jaskier wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming. The horses seemed fine, dozing off to the edge of the clearing. He sat up, feeling oddly at peace. Then he remembered.

“Geralt!” he gasped and scrambled over the few yards that separated them. He was getting nasty grass stains all over his clothes, but ruining his clothes in the name of Witchery seemed to be the theme of the last week.

Geralt was still unconscious when Jaskier’s hands fluttered over his supine body, checking for any injuries he may have sustained while Jaskier had passed out. Blood had stopped flowing from his head wound, and the gash itself seemed fully treated as well. Perhaps it was a more superior Swallow concoction than he’d initially thought. He rotated his arm a little; he was feeling loads better as well.

Jaskier didn’t think he was ready to question if the dream he’d had was perhaps not a dream yet. Nope. Not going to do that yet.

He used some water from their supplies to clean off the blood on Geralt’s skin and hair. He had dust all over him from the canyon, but Jaskier didn’t want to leave and search for a water source lest Geralt wake up and only see Roach and Jaskier’s horse.

His thoughts kept floating back to the dream. His arms felt better than they had in a long while, and the burning from where his wrists and fingers touched for Heliotrope was soothed, but not by any balm or potion. Instead of questioning the world’s blessing, Jaskier closed his eyes and sent his thanks to the Goddess.

At least someone was looking out for them.

Geralt grunted and began to stir just as the sun had started its descent toward the horizon. Jaskier had managed to collect a few pieces of dried wood and branches, and used a serrated-edge blade to whittle them smaller. They’d dine on rations. He wasn’t letting Geralt out of his sight.

When the other Witcher rolled over and started sitting up, Jaskier dropped the knife and branch in his hand and pressed the hand to Geralt’s chest. “Take it easy. You were hit pretty hard.” Jaskier’s voice shook a bit at the memory.

“What happened?” Geralt grumbled, raising himself up on one elbow to look around.

“The noise brought down a rockfall. Suppose that’s why it’s called Silent Pass, then.” Jaskier picked up his previous task, not wanting to look Geralt in the eye as he recounted it. His hands still shook with fear. He’d thought that was the moment. That was it. The moment he’d lose Geralt forever.

To a rock.

“We weren’t nearly close to the end of the pass, though.” Geralt shook his head, testing his neck again.

“You were hit, like I said. I came up and uh.” Jaskier mumbled the rest of his story, rather embarrassed from it all.

“I know you don’t like when I speak quietly, but you’re going to have to help me out, here.” Geralt said dryly.

“I came up and kind of. Used. Heliotrope. Around us.” He still mumbled the words, but Geralt’s surprise was not dulled in the slightest.

“Heliotrope,” Geralt clarified, sitting up off his elbows and spreading his fingers outward. “That Heliotrope.”

Jaskier huffed, embarrassed. “Yes, Geralt, and I thought we were going to die so I tried using a spell I hadn’t used in over half my life to protect us from probably three tons of rock.” He snapped the branch in his hand and tossed it onto the rather impressive pile he’d amassed.

“I didn’t know Witchers still used Heliotrope.” Geralt stretched his back.

“As far as I know, they don’t.” Jaskier focused Igni into his fingertips, a little flame dancing along the edges. Even this didn’t seem to upset him as much. He tossed the flame onto the pile of sticks, where it took light. 

“Thank you, Jaskier,” Geralt said, heartfelt and reserved. “You saved my life, again.” Jaskier remembered the Goddess’ words.

_ He has the heart of a child. _

“Any time, Geralt. Really.”

* * *

Jaskier didn’t tell Geralt about the vision he’d had with Melitele. He did, however, heavily imply that something incredible happened. “Do you tinker with Swallow ingredients very often?” he asked, gently strumming his lute after they ate and settled down. 

“It’s not exactly the easiest potion to make in the first place,” Geralt said, wiping down his dusty armor. “Another Wolf gave me a page explaining how to enhance it but I never gave it a look. Why?”

“So that’s a no. You didn’t, I don’t know, brew and bottle it under the light of a harvest moon and make a sacrifice to a goddess?”

Geralt looked up at him, peering closer and closer until Jaskier squirmed, holding the lute almost defensively.

“You met her.”

Jaskier huffed out a breath and recounted the story, or what he could remember.

“What creature did you spare?”

“There’s, er, werebubbs in the forest. I traded privacy and safety for a few pieces of our food.”

“I forgot werebubbs were intelligent enough to speak,” Geralt laughed to himself. Jaskier’s heart did flips in his chest. “You did the right thing. Some creatures are just hungry. If we spent all our time trying to pick through every flora, fauna, and fungus that crossed over at the Conjunction, Witchers wouldn’t sleep.”

“I thought sleepless Witchers were what got us into this situation in the first place.”

“Fuck off, bard.”

“Fucking off.”

* * *

They left the woods on the main trail at sunrise. Neither knew exactly where they were, but there were no mountains ahead, which gave them some relief. They were still in Mahakam, but some waypoint would show them the quickest way out. They’d reached a temporary truce regarding whatever it was they were arguing about before the rockfall. It was better not to fight.

Jaskier considered Geralt how he always did when they were traveling. While walking gave him a much better view of the other man, riding on horseback allowed him ample opportunity to daydream. When even that seemed too dangerous, he pulled out his lute and allowed his horse to follow Roach’s steady pace.

“Writing about the rockfall?” Geralt asked, when gentle strums were interrupted by scratching on paper and mumbling.

“Not as such,” Jaskier said, only paying half attention. “I’ll probably play it later.”

“If you want to play it now, you can.”

The words grabbed the other half of Jaskier’s attention and placed it on Geralt. “What was that?” he said.

Geralt gave one of those fortifying sighs he was so used to giving around Jaskier. “I said, if you want to play your songs, you can do it now. If you like.” Geralt wasn’t looking his way. Jaskier grinned.  _ I’ll take it. Little victories. _

He adjusted his notebook on the saddle, one thigh over the page so it wouldn’t flutter off the horse. He tested a few chords and sang.

_ A’caimm a te, ein te, a te _ _   
_ _ A’beithe te, ein te, a te _ _   
_ _ Kain raidd, ein ted me lotheith _ _   
_ _ Ategan, evelhuig, me peikileith _

_ Morc a minne, morc a vite. Holl a’wette evelhuig es te. _

_ A’wette het, me ein te, the ein me _ _   
_ _ Yn me ozelyrmen, me keirn threise velöshyn, ein the, a te _ _   
_ _ A’wette het, aard a dol, gwen a muir _ _   
_ _ Me mine esei me shindrem. Me kern esei me kaer. _

Jaskier closed his notebook after making some notes on chord changes, and realized Geralt was looking at him. He had a strange expression on his face, one that Jaskier couldn’t quite decipher. He put the lute away and moved his horse so they were riding abreast one another. “You seem… I’m not sure. Your face says you’re probably constipated,” Jaskier broached.

Geralt shook himself, as if from a trance. “No,” he started, exceptionally helpful as ever. “Where’d you learn to speak Elder? They hardly taught us enough to know when an elf was trashing us, most pick it up every now and then.”

Jaskier sighed. “After Kerack, I ran along the Adelatte for what was probably days.” His tone was somber and even, feigning emotional control.

“But the Adelatte leads right to—”

“Brokilon, I know.” Jaskier shifted in his seat. “The dryads there took care of me. I’d apparently been stabbed.” He sounded much too delighted at that last piece. “It took them awhile to even get through to me. I wasn’t me, anymore. Especially not by the time I was shoved in the direction of Oxenfurt. But speaking, even thinking in Common was just too hard to even fathom for a long while. At least in Hen Linge, most of the words are about nature, beauty, not the nasty little things that haunt me at night.”

“Is that why you studied the arts?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier nodded.

“The deeper I let my past cave in, the less inclined my thoughts were to go digging.”

“Until now?”

“Until now.”

* * *

They reached the southern border of Kaedwen by nightfall, and stayed in a small hamlet just north of Ban Glean. They wanted to stay central to Kaedwen, as far away from any mountainous terrain as they could get. Jaskier worked on his song more and more. Geralt was dying to ask what it meant, but Jaskier didn’t offer such information freely at all. He sang it in taverns along the way for a fair bit of coin.

Geralt knew it’d be complicated for humans to see someone so obviously not-human singing the songs of the great bard Dandelion, but Jaskier seemed to rake in just as much coin as he usually did. It wasn’t until they were nearing Ard Carriagh that he asked.

“You must be doing something that prevents them from seeing your eyes, your…”

“My scars? Geralt, you’ve never been one to mince words,” Jaskier teased. He pulled his lute out of the case while the horses plodded on towards Kaedwen’s capitol. “You see, I thought the jig would be up a lot sooner, but you just never took interest.” He gently passed the instrument over to Geralt.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking at, but one small marking caught his eye. He began to see the pattern over the body of the lute, even up the neck toward the head. It was carved in every tuning pin, beneath every fret, and all hidden by a particularly deft hand playing it. “You enchanted Filavandrel’s lute with dozens of Axiis,” Geralt deadpanned. Could Jaskier get any more unbelievable?

“I mean, it was in the hands of one of the oldest elves on the Continent. Magic abound in this thing. Just figured I’d give myself an advantage.”

“I can’t remember the last time I carved a sign on something.” Geralt carefully plucked a string, feeling the tendrils of power from the note. This was powerful. No wonder Jaskier was so famous.

“First you trash the sign I used to save us in Silent Pass, now this? Some of us are  _ vintage _ Witchers.” Geralt gave the lute back in apology for the perceived slight.

“I always had a strange relationship with Axii. There were some particularly malicious young Witchers at Kaer Morhen, compelling the recruits to jump from high structures or worse.”

_ “Ein kaer d’bleiddan, vorseiken a’nogen.” _ Jaskier shook his head. Geralt gave a confused grunt. “In the wolves’ keep, the young are forsaken.” Jaskier specified. “Vipers care fiercely for their young.”

“That’s not true.” Geralt said, kicking Jaskier’s leg gently. “Those that took advantage of others were swiftly corrected.”

“The master of the keep sounds quite formidable. You’re making me nervous,” Jaskier joked.

“Yes, well. We all got our lashings from Vesemir at one point or another.”

Jaskier choked on his own spit, and for a moment, Geralt was worried he was cursed again, throat closing up. Jaskier waved a hand off of his mother henning.

“I’m fine, stop. Stop! Just thought you said his name was Vesemir.” His eyes watered.

“Yes?” Geralt asked, bewildered. “Haven’t known him to go by any other name.”

Jaskier’s face split into a wide grin, jewel-blue eyes glittering with mirth. “Oh, I cannot wait to get to Kaer Morhen. That man owes me fifty crowns.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of Jaskier's song:
> 
> I came to you, with you, to you.  
> I kissed you, with you, to you.  
> I’d follow you, if you called me.  
> Today, always, bewitch me.  
> Book of love, book of life. All I want forever is you.  
> I want this, me with you, you with me  
> In all my decades, my heart beats fastest, for you, to you  
> I want this, mountain to valley, river to sea  
> My love is my secret. My heart is my fortress.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late posting (for me, at least) but I've been working very hard on these final chapters!

The ride through Kaedwen was spent in a hilarious inverse of how Geralt and Jaskier usually traveled. Geralt had somehow ended up walking Roach by her lead, something about his head hurting from the jostling on the horse. Jaskier remained on horseback. 

Stranger still was that Geralt wasn’t as silent and stoic as he usually was while traveling. The Witcher was downright wheedling Jaskier for any information about how in the world he knew Vesemir.

“We’ll have time for niceties and catching up when I get my fifty crowns.” Jaskier had said, infuriating to a fault. Jaskier had a very nice face, but the smug expression on it, now that he knew he was holding most of the cards, made Geralt desperately want to punch him, in a way he hadn’t felt since perhaps when they first met. “I’ll tell you other stories, if you’d like.”

“I’ve already heard all of your ballads, Jaskier, I don’t think I could stomach a melody right about now.” Geralt grumbled.

“Did you know that Vipers don’t initiate the Trials or the Changes until after puberty?” Jaskier said. Geralt realized with a start that Jaskier was sharing about his life as a Witcher. He shook his head. “Well, they don’t. The training process just to get to that point was brutal, don’t get me wrong, but by the time they sat me down with the potions and spells and procedures, it wasn’t all the horrible nightmares that so many other Witchers made it out to be.”

Geralt spared a thought for his own Trials and Changes, and the mutations that came after. Sometimes, when it’s too cold to sleep and too dangerous for a fire, he would remember the screams, dozens of little boys tortured just for a chance to go and live a long life of more torture. He would think about Sad Albert and the wide berth every Witcher he knew would give it. Normally, he would try and keep his thoughts far from that part of his life, but life as a Witcher meant there was always a drafty door keeping the nightmares out.

“We’d heard that there was a three-in-ten survival rate in most other schools.” Jaskier continued, staring ahead. “I wasn’t a part of the group that did the rituals and procedures, but I knew that everyone that would go out in the woods would come back. When it was all over, for my own Trials, I threw myself into contract after contract, until I was sat down and told to process my pain.”

“How’d you manage that?” Geralt asked, bitter to hear that Jaskier had to endure any pain at all, but ultimately curious.

“The Viper hamsa was an armored caravan, yes, but it was a family. Emotions, feelings, affections, relationships, they were all normal within our ranks,” he gave a sad, bitter laugh. “Even Cyprion would sit and wail for awhile when things got a bit difficult on the road. He had a sister, she wasn’t Trialed and Changed, but she stayed with us.”

“You traveled with humans?” Geralt climbed back atop Roach, the conversation proving a good distraction for his aching head. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“They were not Witchers, biologically speaking, but they were Vipers just the same. We traveled with women, children, we protected them and they cared for us in turn. We were all equals.”

“You mentioned in the...in your journal that the Vipers went to the Witcher Tournament in Kaer Morhen. Did the whole caravan go?”

Jaskier nodded solemnly. When he didn’t speak for a long while, Geralt winced at the memory of burning the journals in Oxenfurt. It gnawed away another piece of his heart. He didn’t have the words to apologize. Jaskier was always better with words. “We lost only several in number, but that was,” he paused, blinking at the sky. “The largest we’d lost in decades.”

“I’m sorry.” Geralt said. It was a start, to everything he’d wanted to say.

When they reached a more well-traveled road that left behind the rocky terrain, they picked up their pace in earnest, eager to reach their destination. The several hours of silence between them two felt like a hundred years. They reached a series of hard twists and turns following a serpentine river that would take them the rest of the way to Kaer Morhen.

“Are you really not going to tell me how you know Vesemir?” Geralt asked, gently steering Roach.

“It’s nothing against you, I’d just rather watch him squirm while I tell you.” Jaskier grinned. Geralt couldn’t help grin back, heart pounding.

“You like a wriggly one, don’t you?” Geralt said before he could stop himself. Jaskier looked at him in surprise and delight.

“Geralt, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Let’s not go that far,” he said quickly.

“But yes, there’s just something about watching fair hair knot itself up on a pillow that stays with me for days.” Jaskier said saucily, gauging Geralt’s reaction. Geralt was steadfastly willing himself to not think of himself as the object of Jaskier’s attention in his scenario. His mouth went rather dry, and he attempted a not-so-smooth recovery.

“I feel like I should be offended, but you’re more invested in the state of my hair than I am.”

“That I am.” Jaskier sounded rather proud of himself.

Another hour passed in a comfortable silence before Geralt pointed out that they were almost at their destination. Jaskier looked up, but the low fog cover that had rolled in obscured his view of the castle above.

“I built that fence when I was twenty.” Geralt said, pointing at a rather out-of-the-way fence along the path.

“And it’s still there!” Jaskier exclaimed.

Jaskier was not the only one immune to racier thoughts of their travel companion; at the mention of Geralt woodworking, his mind provided a very vivid image of Geralt, younger, less scarred, working without a shirt on in the sun, swinging a mallet down to root the fence posts in the earth. His white hair would have been shorter, then, sticking to his face with sweat, a satisfied gleam to his amber eyes as they looked over—

The sudden sound of shallow splashing shook Jaskier from his daydream. They were crossing a low stream, on a bed of rocks. Jaskier’s horse nickered a bit at the sudden terrain change, but Roach plodded on calmly, familiar with the area. It was rather calm, at the base of the inclined trail up to the keep.

Too calm.

Jaskier tensed when his rings began to shudder and vibrate against his hands. “Geralt,” he called.

“I know. I feel it.” Geralt’s head was on a swivel as he scanned the surrounding area for danger. A hard, snapping wingbeat and a scraping, inhaled screech they both were all too familiar with sounded above. “Wyvern!” Geralt shouted. They dismounted and simultaneously drew their swords. Geralt grunted and drew his second sword, holding it out to Jaskier. “Put those toothpicks away.”

“Toothpicks?!” Jaskier squawked, indignant. He sheathed his weapons anyway, and took the sword. “Just because you favor clubbing monsters to death—”

“If you swing my sword like a club I’ll let the wyvern kill you.” Geralt deadpanned, securing the reins of Jaskier’s horse to Roach’s saddle. “Draw it out so the horses can go up the hill.”

“Oh,  _ now _ you’re letting me be bait.” Jaskier grumbled but hefted the sword upright and stalked into the ravine.

The wyvern showed itself, and:

“Oh for fuck’s  _ sake, _ Geralt. It’s a  _ Royal  _ Wyvern!” It was heartening to know that even as a Witcher, Jaskier whined about anything remotely inconveniencing. Jaskier’s warning was entirely more distressing than that revelation, however, and Geralt cast Axii on the horses to keep them calm while they ran away. “Send them now!” Jaskier shouted, hand raised at the diving wyvern in Aard. The concussive blast brought the beast to the ground, water splashing all over Jaskier.

Geralt sent the horses off up the hill and ran into the fray with a yell. He slashed downward as soon as Jaskier was clear, but missed his intended vulnerable target when the stunned wyvern jerked back into focus. The screech it let out was deafening at this close proximity. Jaskier followed suit and started hacking at the beast wherever he could draw blood. He managed to flay quite a bit of spines off of the wyvern’s back, smoothing the area above its wing joints.

The wyvern tried to take to the skies again, and Geralt watched in horror as Jaskier clambered atop the beast and mounted it, right over where he’d landed his blow. This seemed to be a favored move of his. Jaskier tossed him his other sword back as the wings started to flap. “Are all Vipers this stupid?!” Geralt shouted.

The wyvern, obviously, did not like this turn of events. Instead of taking to the skies again for another chance at killing the pair, it hopped around like a crow, trying to shake Jaskier off of its back. “Come now, we can settle this—civilly!” Jaskier grunted, almost tipping off when it reared back. Geralt didn’t want to use a ranged weapon or Aard on the beast and risk Jaskier plummeting to the hard earth, but apparently Jaskier didn’t feel the same way about the situation.

“Somne!” Jaskier shouted with a hand curled in a sign. Geralt groaned as he watched the wyvern wobble in the air, uncontrolled wings causing them to wheel around in their descent.

“Are you just a fan of the signs nobody uses anymore?” Geralt said, disbelievingly. Jaskier let out a sharp bark of laughter and held on tight as they spiralled to the earth.

The wyvern made one last attempt to flap its wings, and hit the ground. Jaskier jumped from it before impact, falling into a roll to the side of the river. Geralt ran over in case there was any more trouble, but Jaskier was already pulling out blade after blade from his person, shoving them deep within the wyvern’s unguarded body. After a few seconds of using it as a pincushion, Jaskier unsheathed his fangs and wasted no time decapitating the beast. When he stood again, blood had made its way onto most of his shoulders and arms, even streaking up his neck, face, and hair. With one hand still holding the silver shortsword, he pushed his hair out of his eyes, held in place by viscera.

It was possibly the hottest thing Geralt had ever seen in his life. His knees felt rather weak, and his heart thumped wildly in his chest. Jaskier’s chest was still heaving from the effort he’d put into felling the wyvern, and he leaned over, hands on his knees. He looked up at Geralt, blue eyes stark from the rest of his pale skin and the gore upon it. A little lopsided grin tugged his lips up. Geralt felt close to fainting.

Before he had the chance to offer his body in the shadow of the dead wyvern, Eskel came crashing down the slope on a horse.

“Geralt! Knew I’d find trouble near you!” Eskel called amiably. “Are you hurt? Who’s this?” He dismounted, but kept a hand on the pommel of the sword at his hip. Jaskier rolled his eyes at the subtle threat and swished his gory blades in the river to clean them off before sheathing them.

“We’re fine. This is Jaskier. He’s—”

“Geralt’s former bard.” Jaskier deadpanned. “Relapsed Witcher. Lovely to meet you.” Eskel’s shock only lasted a second, but he laughed goodnaturedly. “Geralt, I like him, he laughs at my jokes, why don’t you laugh at my jokes?”

Eskel, through his tears, let them know he’d let the others know what happened and meet them up at the castle. 

“What are we supposed to do with…” Jaskier gestured wildly at the mangled corpse that still had little hilts poking out of it. “Our dearly departed friend?”

“We’ll burn it and go up. Go on ahead, Eskel.” Geralt said. He grasped Eskel’s forearm in a quick embrace. It was an embrace enough for them, at least. “Make sure Vesemir is in the welcome wagon.” Geralt smirked.

“See you then.” Eskel remounted and took off up the hill.

Geralt and Jaskier quickly washed off in the river upstream from the wyvern’s body. While Geralt managed to use Aard to blast the beast up the riverbank, Jaskier gathered tinder and kindling for the burning. They worked very quickly together, and in no time, they were walking away from the charred corpse of the Royal Wyvern.

“That was very impressive, Jaskier. Stupid, but impressive.” Geralt said.

“If you make another comment about me using old signs—”

“It was a polite, nice comment—”

“You can be so rude when I’m saving your life, you know—”

“Then stop doing it.”

“I liked it better when you were quiet all the time.”

They grinned madly at one another. Geralt walked a little closer next to Jaskier. They both smelled like adrenaline and blood. A bath would be first on Geralt’s list when settling in at Kaer Morhen.

“So, should I be expecting anybody else up on the mountain?” Jaskier asked.

“It’s almost summer, so I’d say no. Most Witchers stay on the path in the warmer months. Wolves come home for the winter.”

“How poetic.” Jaskier smiled softly, and Geralt’s gaze flicked to his lips. They looked exceptionally soft, and the affection Geralt held for Jaskier had tripled when he’d taken down the wyvern.

“Lambert’s probably up there, too.” Geralt said, looking away before he could do something stupid like blush. “He and Eskel seem to wind up in the same place more often than not.”

“Witchers are often linked by destiny to one another.”

“Like you and me?” Geralt said, looking at Jaskier again. Jaskier was actually blushing this time. “I could see it. Don’t mind a bit.”

“I thought Destiny could go fuck itself.” Jaskier teased. They were both now nearly touching one another’s arms.

“Could think of better things to fuck.” Geralt said, voice dropping to an almost-growl. Jaskier’s jaw fell open in surprise. They were at the gates, now, and Geralt was pleased to have the last word for that round of teasing.

As they walked through the stone archway, Geralt felt a sense of ease wash over him.  _ Home again. _

Jaskier, on the other hand, seemed tense and nervous, fidgeting with one of the knives in his pocket. He glanced around, quiet. Geralt grunted in question to his demeanor.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jaskier said softly. “Last time I was here, y’know…” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Something like ninety Witchers died. We weren’t exactly welcome back.” He gave a bitter, mirthless smile and hunched his shoulders. “Think they’ll throw me out when they know?”

“They’ll have to get through me first.” Geralt said, placing a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder in reassurance.  _ “Me kaer, te kaer.” _

Jaskier made that squawking noise again. It made Geralt laugh, loud, as they walked up the stairs into the grand hall.

It was dimly-lit as ever, a few fires burning in braziers, torches, and hearths. The atmosphere was ancient, lived-in, and warm. Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir were all sitting at a long table, playing Gwent. They stopped when they came near.

The tense silence was short-lived, when Geralt said, “No Path this year? Didn’t know Witchers took vacations.”

“We heard a Viper was killed in Cedaris, figured you’d show up here eventually to tell us the story.” Lambert shrugged. “Seems it’s a lot more than that.” His eyes appraised Jaskier from head to foot, and it turned his gut to be judged so openly.

“Strange, wild story. Best told over food and drinks.” Geralt said. The tension, and three sets of eyes, shifted to between Jaskier and Vesemir.

“Vesemir.”

“Julian.”

“You finally got rid of that ugly hat.”

“You finally got rid of that ugly glamour.”

“Loose your purse, you owe me fifty crowns, you old bag.” Jaskier grinned as Vesemir, after a few tense seconds of glaring, grumbled and paid up.

“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” Geralt asked, unable to keep his smile to himself.

“Best told over food and drinks.” Jaskier grinned. They were so close Geralt could feel the soft puff of breath from his nose. His stomach flipped once more, stealing his own breath.

“Alright, enough footsie. I’m grabbing the food, don’t start without me, Wolf.” Lambert groused. Eskel followed, presumably on drinks duty. Jaskier and Geralt settled in.

“I’m guessing you’re tired after travelling. It’s been months since Cedaris.” Vesemir began lightly.

“We’ve been on the road for the last three months. We left from Oxenfurt.” At the mention of the city, Jaskier shifted uncomfortably.

“Oxenfurt, are you still living there, Julian?”

“It’s Jaskier, now.” he answered, pushing his hair out of his eyes again. It was wet, and starting to curl prettily around his ears. Geralt was rather distracted by just being near him. “Yeah, I still teach there, too.”

“Taught. Can’t really capture a crowd with a Witcher’s face.”

“That’s not true.” Geralt interjected. “He played in taverns from Southern Temeria to here and no one seemed the wiser.” He left out the part about Jaskier’s Axii-fied lute.

“Interesting.” Vesemir said. “Er, is…”

“Countess Mignole is still alive. She’s a bit on in years, but she still has that awful gambeson of yours in a chest.” Jaskier said, watching the elder Witcher go through a wide range of emotions. Geralt was impressed. What an interesting woman, to capture the attentions of and fluster the Master Witcher, Vesemir. “Still holds a flame, if that’s what you’re asking. Husband long dead, might need some company now and again.” Jaskier shrugged. Vesemir’s face clouded over with thought.

“Might need to go to Oxenfurt. On business.”

“Sure. Business.” Jaskier grinned like the cat who caught the canary.

When Eskel and Lambert returned, bearing food and ale, Jaskier literally clapped in joy and thanks. They all ate and drank quietly for a few minutes before Lambert slammed his fist on the table.

“If one of you doesn’t start talking, I’m gonna tackle you to the floor.” he barked.

Jaskier laughed, and Geralt choked on his ale. “So impatient.” Geralt grumbled. “Where do you want me to start?”

“I thought you were just a bard.” Eskel said, asking Jaskier pointedly. His eyes were not judgemental like Lambert’s, but curious. “How’d you hide your identity for so long? Geralt never spoke of you as if you were a Witcher.”

Geralt sputtered into his drink again. “Oh, you  _ speak _ of me, do you?” Jaskier teased.

“I tell them what an annoying bastard you are, glad you’re living up to their expectations.” Geralt bit back. It didn’t dull Jaskier’s grin.

“I went into hiding fifty years ago. Had nowhere else to turn to, melted down my rings, took a glamour and a new identity, tried to start life again.”

“Sounds like something a coward would do.” Lambert jibed, crossing his arms. Jaskier’s expression turned cold as he regarded him.

“You have your entire family killed by Salamandra in front of your eyes, and see what you do next.” Jaskier hissed. Geralt looked ready to throttle Lambert for his callousness.

Silence fell over the table with this new information.

“You’re a Viper.” Eskel said at long last. Jaskier nodded, fiddling with his rings.

“That’s how Mignole got all the vedyminaica.” Vesemir added, softly.

“Yes. I escaped with my swords, and any texts I could carry.” Jaskier snapped defensively. “I healed in Brokilon for several months before they turned me loose onto the road. I met Mignole in the winter of that year, and she took me in. In exchange for my new life, I let her have my old one.” He finished his story with a long drink of ale. Geralt felt the lump in his throat grow. He kicked Lambert.

“You’re fucking rude.” Geralt growled.

“Down, Geralt. Lambert, you don’t get to ask any more questions.” Vesemir interrupted. Lambert still looked pissed, but conceded. “So what happened in Cedaris?”

“I didn’t know Jaskier was a Witcher at the time. Took about a week after we left to find out.”

“Geralt, we don’t normally tell stories backwards to forwards.” Jaskier chided, his natural playfulness returning. “I’d convinced him to stay in Cedaris, really…”

* * *

“...A rock hit me, I passed out, and we kept going—”

“Geralt  _ please _ let Jaskier tell the story, you’re giving me a headache.” Lambert whined into his ale.

“Why thank you, Lambert.” Jaskier crowed. A nasty jealous feeling in Geralt’s gut began to turn. Was this a mistake, bringing Jaskier to Kaer Morhen?

One gentle smile from Jaskier was all it took to quell his fears.

* * *

“How’d you come upon us, anyway?” Jaskier asked Eskel, slurring. They’d all been drinking steadily for the last several hours, and the liquor was starting to catch up with their Witcher metabolisms. Vesemir had passed out in a cushy armchair nearby. Lambert looked well on his way to the same fate.

“I was cutting back underbrush around the walls when I saw Roach and another horse come thundering up the pass. I turned in the opposite direction, knowing I’d find you.” Eskel shrugged. Jaskier got the feeling Eskel tended to underplay his accomplishments and strengths. He lost himself in thought about the concept of Eskel for awhile.

“I will write a song for you.” Jaskier declared.

“No…” Geralt moaned, also drunk.

“Yes! By my first name, Eskel the Valiant. Wh’r’s m’lute.” Jaskier finished his sentence by slumping into Geralt, asleep at last.

Geralt sighed and let his body slip so his head rested in his lap. Jaskier was not a heavy weight, nor a light weight. He was Jaskier, and all of the magnitude that came with him in Geralt’s heart. 

“Geralt,” Eskel said, drawing his attention from the head in his lap. “You’ve got it so bad.” He gave a chuckle. “You’re wrapped around his finger. Never thought I’d see the day.” He gave a small salute with his flagon.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Geralt said, sounding weak even to his own ears. Jaskier pouted in his dream and cuddled closer to Geralt.

“You know…” Eskel toyed with his cup a bit. “Witchers don’t often get a chance like that.” He spoke softly, looking down. “Two who are the same. Long lives, similar life experience and all. Vesemir has the lady in Oxenfurt, but she’ll die, as humans do.”

“I—he—we don’t…” Geralt groaned and wiped a hand over his face, trying to work sense back into his brain. “I’ve already treated him so...he wouldn’t even...he deserves better.” he finally settled on a reason for his romantic cowardice.

Eskel laughed and shook his head. “You don’t know how he looks at you.” he said, true as the stars. “What did you do that was so bad he’d be laying his head in your lap right now?”

The question struck Geralt like a bolt of ice to the heart. He looked down at Jaskier, still asleep, still peaceful, for now. “I burned him. A very important part of his life. I acted rashly, not understanding until it was much too late.”

“What did you burn?” Eskel asked, shifting.

“Memories. I made him burn memories. I thought...I don’t know what I thought, to be honest.” Geralt sighed. “I wasn’t thinking. I just, I was hurting, so I hurt him right back and thought I was being just. If I could undo it, I would do anything to set things right. Anything.”

Eskel regarded him for a moment, trying to parse truth from metaphor. “Have you tried replacing what you burned?” he asked, cocking his head to the side in the way most Witchers did.

“I...I don’t even know how to begin doing that.” Geralt shook his head. “What’s lost is only in my memory. His memory. I don’t think he’ll want to recall the whole truth if it comes to it.”

“Why not you, then?” Eskel said, sipping from his mug.

“Me?” Geralt parroted. “I only read through them once and they were gone several hours later.”

Eskel squinted, thinking much too hard for a drunk man. “There are...certain combinations of herbs...that can regenerate memories in perfect clarity. Just once, though.” He warned. “I don’t know the exact formula, but were you to perhaps...reach out...to a certain Viziman court mage…” Geralt shook his head.

“No. Are you talking about Triss Merigold? She wants me dead, wards on Kaer Morhen be damned.” He huffed a sigh. “Is she really the only one who can help?” He looked at Jaskier and knew he’d say yes no matter who the mage was.

Eskel laughed. “You mentioned how much of a slut Jaskier was and conveniently left out the parts where you fucked exceptionally powerful magic-users.”

“Yeah, the list of who I’ve spurned seems to grow every day.” Geralt mumbled.

“Triss will know what you need for the potion. I can scrounge up some books for you to write in.” Geralt both cursed and was grateful for Eskel’s innate ability to glean information from such a man as himself.

“Thank you, Eskel. I mean it. Thank you.” Eskel just gripped his arm like they had earlier that day, just after the wyvern. He took his leave and Lambert followed when roused from his drunken doze.

“Wh’m’a…” he slurred. Eskel shook his head and half-carried Lambert out of the grand hall.

Geralt spent a few minutes absorbing the advice Eskel had given him. Jaskier was special to him, it’d take a special apology to make it up to him. A few drugged-out days spent pouring his memories into books would definitely be a start to how much Geralt wanted to do for Jaskier, to say sorry.

Jaskier, as if knowing his cue, snuggled into his middle, arms wrapping around Geralt. “Is there a bed in this castle or is that too good for a Wolf?” he mumbled, half-coherent.

“Let’s go to bed.” Geralt conceded fondly, helping Jaskier sit up and walking him out of the grand hall, sparing a blanket over Vesemir’s sleeping body. Not a single Wolf forsaken there.

Geralt led him to his own rooms, on the western side of the keep. Geralt liked his sleep. Jaskier hummed and mumbled as he was directed. Geralt indulged in the feeling of Jaskier’s warm body against his own, leaning on him for support. They both dawdled on the way there, mainly by Geralt’s decision. “The bed will probably be dusty.” he warned.

“Nothin’ we haven’t shared before.” Jaskier aimed a goofy smile up at Geralt, piercing his heart instantly. “We’re sharing, right?” Worry threaded itself through his words.

“Of course. I’ll scare away the nightmares, Jaskier. Any night. Every night.” Jaskier was too drunk to really process the promise, but he leaned into Geralt’s shoulder with a soft whine.

“Keep saying stuff like that, you’ll make it worse.” Jaskier said. They arrived at Geralt’s room too soon for him to ask what he meant.

The bed was as dusty as Geralt feared, but all it took to make it sleep-worthy was propping up a drunk Jaskier against a nearby wall and beating the hell out of the coverlet. Jaskier went down easy, a soft noise in the back of his throat. “Geralt.” he said, surprisingly lucid. It was probably the final push of his own consciousness.

“Yes, Jaskier.” Geralt removed belts, armor, boots, anything to get them both comfortable.

“D’you think they hate me because I’m a Viper? Because I lied to you?” The words hit Geralt straight in the gut, each one.

“They don’t.” Geralt said, softly. He sat on the bed, turned to face Jaskier’s wiggly drunk body. “They know you matter to me. I don’t think they’d dare overstep if they had any sense left to consider it.” He couldn’t meet Jaskier’s eyes as he said it, but traced gentle circles with his thumb over Jaskier’s knee. They were both still filthy from the skirmish, but rather than invoke the stark reality of tomorrow, they stayed in the gentle fantasy of tonight. Jaskier made a motion that summoned Geralt into his arms, and Geralt went easily, wrapping Jaskier up in his hold so he felt safe enough to drift off.

“Maybe I’m the one making this harder on myself.” Jaskier sighed before falling asleep.

Geralt felt, for the first time, that maybe he wasn’t the only one stuck with parsing through an absolute mess of feelings. They both slept soundly through the night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is!! The final chapter!!
> 
> If you'd like, I've recorded myself playing and singing the songs Jaskier plays in this chapter. I recorded them on my phone, and I'm an amateur musician, so treat me kindly, please. Enjoy!  
> \- [Jaskier's Song](https://soundcloud.com/bailey-jensen-225918092/jaskiers-song/s-yefXCo830ST)  
> \- [Aren't You Extremely Interested](https://soundcloud.com/bailey-jensen-225918092/arent-you-extremely-interested/s-ByrTz5J9a6e)

The weather in Kaer Morhen cleared up relatively quickly. Jaskier felt a rush of inspiration brought by the beautiful landscape and fresh mountain air, and tended to haunt the more acoustically-resonant areas of the keep, practicing and writing new songs every day. He’d perform them for the other Witchers if they asked, but Geralt didn’t like the notion. He played for Geralt whenever he damned well pleased. Was he trying to impress the others? Did he still feel threatened by the possibility of being cast out? Or was it something else entirely?

Jaskier and Eskel, Geralt noted, were often found deep in conversation together, heads turned toward one another, hunched over a book or a diagram that seemingly lost interest whenever Geralt would walk in. It did suspicious things to his heart every time, compounded when Jaskier would look up and give that lopsided grin that tore his lungs asunder.

They shared the same bed every night, though Jaskier hadn’t had a nightmare since Silent Pass. Geralt was happy that some of the things they had before were still strictly  _ theirs, _ not shared with Lambert, Eskel, or Vesemir.

All five of them had unanimously agreed to treat their meeting at Kaer Morhen as somewhat of a well-deserved break. The trek there had never been easy, the wyvern attack somehow exemplifying that.

Jaskier was asked to play one evening. Geralt had mentioned the Axii carvings on the lute, and the others were permitted to look but not touch the instrument. Geralt was selfishly pleased at this as well, having held the lute while on horseback.

“I’ve never seen a sign-carved tool do much else than backfire.” Vesemir teased. He was going to head out to Oxenfurt in two days, and was in a much better mood than Geralt had seen from him in years. “Yet, with your successes with Somne and Heliotrope, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Just because I favor old tricks doesn’t mean this old dog can’t take you down.” Jaskier teased lightly. He was plucking some minor chords along the lute, something sad and melancholy. He sang, but it didn’t have any taste of magic behind it.

_ This is the story I wanted to tell _ _  
_ _ One of a love never strayed _ _  
_ _ The beginning was lonely _ _  
_ _ And the present was only _ _  
_ _ The middle at the start of today. _

_ Snakes lie in the long grass _ _  
_ _ Are fearsome but not alone _ _  
_ _ If another came by _ _  
_ _ Who shared the glint in their eye _ _  
_ _ The second would pass safely on home. _

_ I am not the weariest man _ _  
_ _ I am not the stormiest sea _ _  
_ _ Lo, were I either, then I would have neither _ _  
_ _ The heart, nor the spirit of me _

_ I realize now that it’s you who was wrong _ _  
_ _ Your love is not fortress or shield _ _  
_ _ If the pain in the night was a raven in flight _ _  
_ _ I’d lock it in a cage ever-sealed _ _  
_ _ Locked in a tomb ever-sealed _

_ There was a funeral on the day that I was born _ _  
_ _ People there were smiling in black _ _  
_ _ I should be there with them, there buried with them _ _  
_ _ I fear love: there’s no going back _

_ Ashes and dust buried deep in the ground _ _  
_ _ Steel-silvery rust buried not to be found _ _  
_ _ If your heart allows from below in the deep _ _  
_ _ Could you permit me a night in your keep? _ _  
_ _ Permit me a night in your keep _

Geralt could hear the truth in it, no magic around it. It still brought an incredible sadness to his heart. Jaskier had met Geralt’s eyes when singing of love, neither fortress nor shield, and again when he sang of fearing not going back.

He knew the song was of Jaskier’s own life, birth, death, snakes, ash, steel and silver, lonely beginnings, feelings of life ill-gotten. Geralt gave a solemn nod in thanks and understanding. He had been entrusted with so much more of Jaskier than he’d originally thought; his story was not being shared with these Witchers to the extent he’d shared it with Geralt.

What else could they share in the future?

As Lambert was about to complain that the song did nothing to him but depress him, Jaskier’s hands shifted into a new, jauntier riff and rhythm. Geralt, from his angle, could see that his thumb was constantly pressed against an Axii symbol. He smirked and watched Jaskier play.

_ Hey! Lovers, aren’t you extremely _ _  
_ _ Interested in holding hands? _ _  
_ _ Hey! Lovers, aren’t you extremely _ _  
_ _ Interested in havin’ a dance? _

_ I don’t know what’s come over me, _ _  
_ _ But it’s all over you, so _

_ Hey! Lovers, aren’t you extremely _ _  
_ _ Interested in dancing with each other, too? _

Geralt and Vesemir watched with absolute delight as Eskel and Lambert wordlessly got up and started to dance with one another, holding each others hands and spinning. They both had easygoing, carefree smiles on their faces and it eased Geralt’s heart to know that his brothers were so happy in this moment. Jaskier shifted a little, palm muting the chords while he pressed the heel of his hand to the subtle Axii carvings on the piece of wood securing the strings to the body. Even his voice had a more suggestive tone to it.

_ Hey, lovers, aren’t you extremely _ _  
_ _ Interested in taking off your pants _ _  
_ _ Trousers off, maybe rip a blouse off _ _  
_ _ Stop thinking about the ‘why you can’t’s _

_ I don’t know what’s come over me _ _  
_ _ I just wanna be all over you, so _

_ Hey, lovers, aren’t you extremely _ _  
_ _ Interested in what I can do to you? _

Geralt and Vesemir were in stitches watching Lambert and Eskel happily strip before them. The song ended with one ringing chord, and when Jaskier removed his hand from the instrument and signs, the two Witchers froze in shock, mental focus returning. Eskel had half a jacket on, and no trousers. Lambert was apparently more adept at stripping, and almost nude. Eskel blushed up to his ears, as did Lambert the longer they stared at each other, remembering the dancing, the touching, the happiness. “You suck at dancing.” Lambert said, shoving Eskel. They both continued the shoving match, yelling at one another while Vesemir barked out delighted laughter.

Geralt reached out for Jaskier’s lute in his lap. “Think that’s enough for one night.” As soon as his hand had lifted the instrument an inch from Jaskier’s grasp, he felt a sharp tip of cold steel against his side. Jaskier had always been fast-reflexed, and Geralt really shouldn’t have been as turned on by this as he was, and  _ yet here we are. _

Jaskier was grinning madly, though, a stripe of light reflecting from the polished blade up on to his face, over an eye in such a way that it stole Geralt’s thoughts. “You’re lucky I like you, Witcher. Anyone else who puts their hands on my lute would be asking for a swift death.”

“And what, I get a slow death?” Geralt said, not moving away yet. Jaskier winked at him.

Lambert, who had redressed himself, groaned and told them to get a room.

Little did he know, and all that.

* * *

Lambert wanted to get back at Jaskier as soon as possible, and had challenged him to a no-rules duel in the training grounds. Geralt had immediately started worrying himself into a snit, trying to talk Lambert and then Jaskier out of the challenge. Aside from a wyvern, a rockfall, a few barghest, and one Witcher, Geralt didn’t think Jaskier could go up against a ready Witcher and come out unscathed. Geralt knew he was being ridiculous, fretting after a fucking  _ Witcher _ for sixteen years, and continuing to do so even now. Jaskier assured Geralt over and over that he would be alright, and if things went sour he’d yield.

“Geralt. My pride lies elsewhere besides how well I can go up against another swordsman.” Jaskier said, blue eyes full of genuine amusement. Geralt caring for him was novel, and flustering, and wonderful all at once. He’d cupped the back of Geralt’s neck and squeezed gently, leaving it at that. Geralt hadn’t said more because he wasn’t sure what words were anymore.

Jaskier had a few light pieces of spare armor he’d managed to scrape together before the fight. As all Witchers knew, ill-fitting armor could spell death, but there was no danger here, just Lambert. Geralt’s mouth absolutely watered when Jaskier walked out wearing the light brown leathers, his hair held back from his face in a small bun at the top of his head. He looked more battle-ready than he’d ever been, even with the ridiculous little knob of hair. Eskel jabbed Geralt in the side, motioning that he should pick his jaw off the stones below.

“No rules, huh?” Jaskier checked once more, stretching his shoulders and back.

“No rules.” Lambert confirmed with a smirk. “Let’s see what you can do without that lute, yeah?”

“Bet I can still make you dance.” Jaskier quipped back. At the mention of the previous night’s shenanigans, Lambert drew his sword and took a stance. “Alright, go ahead.” Jaskier twirled his fangs around his fingers, seemingly bored. Geralt knew the glint in his eye, he was very, very focused.

“Would it help if I kept a hand here to catch your drool?” Eskel teased. Geralt shoved him.

Lambert and Jaskier danced around each other, finding their footing. Jaskier held one sword aloft, parallel to the ground, while his right hand held the other sword at the ready. Lambert kept both hands on his longsword, center of gravity tilted forward, ready to attack. Jaskier was more patient than he was, however, blowing him a kiss and taunting him. The sword came down with a swing at Jaskier’s left, and he blocked, twisting the fangs just so that the longsword swung wide, using Lambert’s momentum against him. Jaskier ducked under his shoulder and slapped the flat of his blade against Lambert’s ass, prancing out of the way of another wide swing.

Geralt laughed at the theatrics, clapping. Vesemir chided Lambert on letting his emotions get the best of him, and Eskel cast an uneasy glance from the fencing master to the ring. Lambert reset, changing his footing and raising the sword aloft, pointed toward Jaskier in a threatening stance. He thrust first again, and Jaskier ran straight for it. A shout formed in Geralt’s throat at the sight, the same feeling as when Jaskier had clambered atop a very angry Royal Wyvern.

The sword did not touch him, but Lambert was also prepared. When the blade was about to stall in his reach, Lambert drew his arm back, elbowing Jaskier in the shoulder and preventing a shortsword to the neck. Jaskier grunted at the hit, rolling in the sand away from him, but he didn’t look dazed. The round was still on. Lambert used both hands to bring the sword around, atop Jaskier’s crouched form. The fangs went up in an X, the edge of the longsword catching in the intersection with a burst of sparks. Jaskier was still forced to his knees, caught only halfway to standing.

They stayed locked in this struggle before Geralt saw Jaskier flick his eyes to the left, scanning for a landing area. Lambert saw this all too easily. Jaskier was smart, though, rolling right when Lambert had expected the opposite. The tip of one fang rested lazily on Lambert’s shoulder, and even Vesemir clapped at the effort from both.

“Again?” Jaskier said.

“Change your weapons.” Vesemir called. “Lambert with the daggers, Jaskier with a longer sword.” They nodded at the Witcher and walked to the edge to grab the training weapons there. They would not give one another their own weapons, it was taboo.

When they reset, Geralt felt his body heat again at the sight of Jaskier with the longsword in his hands. One glance at Eskel proved he was just as interested in the sight of Lambert with daggers at the ready. Lambert assumed the same stance Jaskier had, one dagger up, the other at his hip, pointed forward. He made to jump for Jaskier, who was calm enough not to have flinched. Jaskier adjusted his grip on the sword, keeping it directed out and down by his side, ready to swing upward for a defensive hit, but—

Jaskier took the initiative this time, swinging up with a shout at the effort and twisting his body into a jump, twirling as he brought the sword down on Lambert. Lambert stepped into Jaskier’s space to avoid the blade, catching Jaskier’s arms in the crooks of his elbows. He couldn’t stab at Jaskier, like this, but it did allow him to use his larger build against Jaskier, pushing him backwards with ease. Jaskier glared openly at Lambert, realizing his mistake as he was pushed into a fencepost and losing his grip on the sword at once. Lambert easily tapped the training dagger atop Jaskier’s head. The three observers applauded. Jaskier winked at Lambert and said something under his breath that made the other man laugh with his head thrown back. The initial tension and vengeance of the first few rounds had disappeared.

It was like Jaskier had been there with them as a family, all along. Whether it was Jaskier desperate to find others like him, or the decimated ranks of Wolves that wanted more than a half-dozen to their own pack, it didn’t matter.

Lambert and Jaskier reset again and began when Lambert tapped his daggers together at Jaskier. Only a Witcher’s eyes could make any sense of the blur before them, hands and blades twirling and blocking, some kind of improvised dance. Jaskier noticed it, too. “Aw, you like dancing for me, don’t you?” he teased.

“Like hell.”

Another fast flurry of footwork had the longsword held precariously at Lambert’s neck, one dagger in the dirt, and another aimed between Jaskier’s ribs.

“Draw.” Vesemir said, and they stepped back. “Are you two going to actually play without any rules or are you just going to disappoint me?” Eskel and Geralt shared a smirk and looked over expectantly.

Jaskier gave a dramatic bow, flourishing his blade. “As you wish.” They took back their personal weapons. Lambert rolled his neck side to side and Jaskier—

Sheathed his blades.

“What’s he doing?” Eskel whispered.

“I’ve known him sixteen years. It’s better not to guess.” Geralt murmured.

“Alright Lambert, ever flown a wyvern before?” Jaskier said, taking a very wide, steady stance. His hands were twitching, waiting. He bounced on his toes a little.

“Obviously not, I’m not as stupid as you.”

“Cockatrice?”

“No.”

“Harpy? Siren? Any winged creature? Oh! A fleder. Have you flown a fleder?”

“No! I swear if you don’t have a point, I’ll choke you.” Lambert snapped.

“Well then.” Jaskier said, rotating his hands loosely. “We’ll see about that.”

He settled into a quiet, still stance. Lambert came at him and he rolled to the side, out of reach, before popping up again. He feigned a yawn and raised an eyebrow.

They continued like that, attacking and strafing away, until Vesemir barked that he didn’t want to see a circus show of Witchers. Jaskier grinned, and Lambert glared.

At great speed, Lambert charged Jaskier, who dropped to his knee as Lambert aimed a felling stroke too hard to pull away from. As the other Witchers watched in horror, Jaskier just held up both hands, in a defensive gesture—

No. His hands were crossed at the wrist, pinkies linked, middle fingers pointed to the palm.

When Lambert hit the instantaneous force-field of Heliotrope and Aard, his entire body went flying back like he’d been launched in the air as if by trebuchet. He cartwheeled, too stunned to even shout, sword flying elsewhere.

Lambert landed in a cart full of hay.  _ So there  _ was  _ a method to Jaskier’s defensive retreats. _

Eskel fell to the ground laughing when he’d caught his breath. Vesemir muttered, “Heliotrope. Wow.” Geralt let out a shuddering breath he’d gasped in when Jaskier had seemed to give himself up to Lambert’s sword. Jaskier jogged over to Lambert.

“Are you—of course you’re alright. Come now, don’t make that face, I’ll show you how in a minute.”

* * *

After Vesemir had set out for Oxenfurt,

(“On business matters, only.”

“Say hello to business matters for me, Vesemir!”)

Geralt spent many of his hours researching in the Kaer Morhen library. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to find a definitive answer on how to make the potion that would retrieve his memories of Jaskier’s notebooks. He’d collected as many empty notebooks as he could and laid them out in the library for inspiration, but he felt, with every passing second, he was going to lose the memories for good.

Jaskier thought he just had a lot of questions that needed answering, and the library in Kaer Morhen held the answers. Geralt felt awful for not correcting him. He felt awful in general.

It was this self-wallowing that landed Geralt in front of the megascope in the tower, arms crossed as he contacted Triss Merigold.

She crossed her arms in turn when she realized it was Geralt on the other end. “Tell me why I should even keep talking to you.” she demanded.

“Because I’m sorry for turning you down and I need your help with the reason why.”

She laughed, tinny through the magic. “You’re really not selling this for yourself, Witcher.” she shook her head. “But go on, I’ll bite.”

Geralt quickly explained Jaskier (and wasn’t that an undertaking) and what he’d done in Oxenfurt.

“...and I’ve heard of this memory resurfacing spell you know of, I want...I just want to make this right.” He held his breath and waited for Triss’ response.

“I can’t believe someone caught the big White Wolf.” Triss smiled, shaking her head. “I’ll help you, only because I like seeing you in love.”

He willed himself not to be overly obvious about his feelings, but a soft blush sprang up his cheeks. He wasn’t sure if it would have even been noticeable over the megascope, but Triss didn’t comment on it, still looking at his projection somewhere in Vizima. “I’ll send you instructions by raven.”

“There’s one more thing I wanted to ask about…”

* * *

Jaskier was worried about how Geralt was wandering the castle at all hours. He’d often skipped into town for a day or so, returning with purchases he wouldn’t talk about, or spent long evenings up in the library tower.

“You look troubled.” Eskel said, grunting as he sat next to Jaskier on the parapets one evening. Geralt was gone, again, in Kaedwen. He hadn’t specified. Maybe this small fantasy they were living in the castle walls was losing the battle against reality, and they’d go out again on the road, and things would go back to how they were.

Bickering and misunderstandings, secrets and lies, shouting and fighting. Nightmares and screaming.

There’d be no more soft glances, warm smiles, or shy touches. There’d be no more sharing beds, no more light banter between new friends.

“Just miss him, you know.” Jaskier said, voice tight with emotion the more he thought about it. Eskel nodded.

“I get it. It’s hard to say goodbye when you’re not even sure if they’ll come back the next time.”

“Exactly. And I was...you know, I get how he felt, now. Leaving things on the wrong foot, the wrong last thing to say. He’s started not even saying goodbye when he goes off from here. I think the last thing I said to him was something about breakfast.” he shook his head mournfully. “I wish…” Jaskier gave a sad laugh. Wasn’t a wish what caused all their troubles the last few months? “I wish he knew that I fucking miss him like I miss the rest of them.”

Eskel nodded, not needing to ask for clarification as to who ‘they’ were. Jaskier was about to tell Eskel about the nightmares, how terrified he was that they’d come back and Geralt wouldn’t be  _ there, _ when he heard hoofbeats coming up the mountain. They both watched from the parapets.

Geralt’s silvery hair was fiery in the light of the setting sun. His face was determined as he made his way up the trail atop Roach. He had another mysterious few bundles lashed to the saddle. He took Jaskier’s breath away, like always, but the longing was new. He was  _ right there, _ and yet so fucking far away that it physically pained him. Geralt stabled Roach, and he and Eskel watched quietly as he swept away up the stairs to the library once again.

Jaskier sighed the moment he was out of sight. “I’m such a fool.”

“We all are, don’t worry.”

* * *

Geralt was furiously laying out books and ink and bottles all around the library when Jaskier walked in. He looked frenzied, desperate. Jaskier couldn’t help but watch and wonder what he was doing. Nothing seemed to give him away, and he’d been tight-lipped on the matter the dozens of times he’d asked.

He finally noticed Jaskier, and his eyes shot up, obviously surprised. “Jaskier.” He said, breathlessly.

“Geralt, what are you doing?” he took a step in, looking at the vials and stationery. “Are you writing something? Can’t do much research with an empty book. Several. Empty books.”

“I’m not—I’m preparing.” He said solemnly. “Jaskier, I cannot tell—”

“I brushed down and fed Roach for the evening.” Jaskier interrupted, looking up into Geralt’s eyes with sadness in his own. “You’ve been so distracted, never here, always gone, up at all hours, you...we haven’t spoken in days.” his voice cracked on the last note. Geralt’s face crumpled and he pulled Jaskier into his arms suddenly. Jaskier was shocked, immediately flustered by the embrace. Geralt pressed his face into Jaskier’s hair.

“I’m sorry. I’ve...I’ve really fucked up, Jaskier.” he admitted. It carried more weight than an apology for the last few days of his absence around the castle. “It will be done soon. I’m not leaving again.”

“But it’s like you’re not here, even when you’re right in front of me.” They spoke in whispers. “I’m...did I do something wrong, Geralt? I can find a different room to—”

“No!” Geralt blurted. “I’m. No. Please. Please don’t do that. You haven’t done anything wrong.” He insisted, holding Jaskier by the shoulders. His amber eyes were ringed in sleepless bruises. “I’m...all I’m asking is another few days, please hold on for another few days. I’m trying to fix this, please believe me.” His hands moved from Jaskier’s shoulders to his neck and face, cupping both gently as he held him. Jaskier held onto Geralt’s wrists. He felt entirely warm and safe in Geralt’s hold, which…

“I don’t want to have any nightmares without you there to save me from them.” Jaskier admitted, voicing the fear he’d had when Geralt’s mood had shifted.

Geralt shook his head. “You won’t, you won’t.” he promised.

“How? I feel so fucking lonely lately, it’s just a matter of time before my own mind betrays me.” Jaskier looked down and almost whimpered when Geralt pulled away to get something from his pack. “I’m not taking a nightshade just to get me to knock out for the night.” Jaskier sighed.

“No, not nightshade. I...well, I commissioned this. From a sorceress. There should be enough supply until I’m finished.” Geralt pressed the bottles into Jaskier’s hands, four in all. Another four nights without Geralt? At Jaskier’s distraught expression, he held the man’s face again. Jaskier leaned into his palms, closing his eyes at the sudden safety again. “This doesn’t make you sleep, but it gives you control over your dreams.”

“Lucid dreaming, I’ve heard of it.” Jaskier nodded, clutching the bottles.

“Yes. If you want to wake up, you’ll be able to wake up, or change what’s happening. I don’t know how it works, but if it doesn’t...you can come get me.” Jaskier considered this. Geralt had been working and  _ preparing _ so much for this project, and now, right at the finish line, he wanted Jaskier to interrupt him if he needed to be comforted from his nightmares? The weight of it hit him like a punch to the gut. Jaskier nodded.

“I understand.” he whispered between them, a promise.  _ I’ll wait for you. _ “Geralt, why are you doing all this?”

Geralt gently stroked at Jaskier’s cheekbone with his thumb. “I want you to trust me again. Like you did before.” His expression was so sad that Jaskier surged and wrapped his own arms around Geralt.

“I already trust you, you fool.” Jaskier said. “I know you need to do this, though. I will...do you need anything?” he pulled back, the bottles clinking together in his hands.

“Will you leave meals by the door? I can’t...I  _ shouldn’t _ let you in, while I’m working.”

“Is it dangerous? What you’re doing?”

“I don’t know.” Geralt said, frowning. “I’ve been assured the process is rather...upsetting, but I need to do this.” His jaw was set in that way Jaskier knew he wouldn’t be convinced out of whatever decision he’d made. Jaskier just nodded and leaned forward until his forehead rested on Geralt’s chest.

“Please be safe, Geralt. Please.” Geralt buried his face into Jaskier’s hair again, holding him close for just a few precious moments, before leading Jaskier to the door and closing the door. The last he saw of the outside was Jaskier’s worried blue eyes. The click of the lock had the finality of a death knell.

Turning to the empty books on the desks, Geralt approached them like they were a formidable beast. He would not emerge until things were set right.

* * *

Four days felt an eternity.

Jaskier did as Geralt asked, leaving meals at the threshold of the library and picking up empty trays. He heard Geralt moving around inside the library but didn’t dare snoop. He could hear Geralt’s breathing, slow and rhythmic, and the scratch of quill on parchment, but that was all.

Eskel tried to comfort and distract him. Nobody knew why Geralt was acting this way, or what his project entailed. Eskel had implied he knew a little of what was going on, but Jaskier didn’t want to know, after the third meal he’d left behind for Geralt. It was better to wonder than worry.

The potion Geralt had given him was very effective. Jaskier only needed to take one a night, and any creeping nightmares could be held at bay. It wasn’t the same without Geralt there. Despite the well-rested nights, he was struck with exhausting worry, pacing about the castle and looking back up at the windows of the library tower, like he’d see a familiar face there.

It was sunrise on the fifth day when Jaskier went out to the parapets, like he had just before the first night. He didn’t want to fill the castle with his worry. What if Geralt needed more time? What if something had gone wrong? His throat constricted with the thoughts, making it hard to breathe. He gripped the stone wall for support, knees feeling weak. He hadn’t been eating much the last few days, too consumed by worry.

He jumped nearly off the castle wall when a throat cleared behind him. He whirled, clutching his chest in surprise. “Geralt.” Jaskier whispered in recognition. “You’re—”

He looked awful. He’d obviously slept very little while working on his project, and his eyes had even darker circles around them as Jaskier took a step forward.

“I’m finished.” Geralt said, relief palpable in his voice, in his face, in his body language. Jaskier wanted to hold him close and never let go. His heart was still racing, though he’d gotten over the surprise. Jaskier noticed the book in his hand and Geralt held it out. “They are. The rest are back inside. But I. I wanted to bring this to you. To show you what I’ve been doing.” Jaskier’s hands shook as he took the book, giving Geralt a look of confusion. Geralt fidgeted before him. “I had to make sure I got it all. Got it all right. I did. It’s all there.”

Jaskier tentatively opened the book, grateful for the sunrise.

> _ Vizima, 1184. Mikal has shown me the lute. I believe I am in love. Not with Mikal, of course. _

Jaskier gasped and looked up, tears already pricking his eyes. Geralt’s face was a loosely-held mask, hardly concealing the nervousness beneath. Jaskier read on, flipping a few pages ahead.

> _ Still in Shithole (Vizima), 1185. Did you know that Vizima’s main export is the scent of horseshit? _

He flipped again.

> _ Not Vizima, 1185. Mikal is trying not to be jealous that I am better at the lute than he is. I have written a song, and it is about how much better I am at lute than he is. Nobody wants to listen to it. Their loss, honestly. Witchers don’t appreciate art. _

Again.

> _ Oxenfurt, 1185. WHAT A WONDERFUL CITY! We must hide, but there is abundant art, beauty, song, wine, love, and sunshine. The gentle ripples on the river reflect amber and gold in the sunset, and I think it’s my favorite color. How could a blue-green river create warm bronzes? It must be the magic of Oxenfurt itself. The caravan wants to move on soon, for there are no contracts for beasts in a contained city. I think they lack imagination. There are plenty of things to do here. _

Jaskier closed the book when his hands shook too hard to read Geralt’s handwriting anymore. A few pages flipped by, showing glimpses of sketches, names long lost to fire, and fire again. A few tears fell from his eyes, and he held the book close to his chest, like it would hold his pain in.

Geralt made a distressed noise at Jaskier’s tears, and took one of Jaskier’s hands, gently leading him to the edge of the parapet. He was confused for a moment before Geralt put Jaskier’s hand atop his chest, his heart. He coaxed him to make a fist in his clothes, and leaned back. Jaskier realized with a start that he was putting them in each other's shoes, just as they had been in Oxenfurt.

“Geralt, don’t—!”

“I cannot find words as easily as you do.” Geralt whispered quickly. “I am putting my life in your hands, asking for forgiveness for hurting you, for not. For not trusting you, believing you. I spent four days straight-” Jaskier made a soft, pained noise, “-trying to undo the wrongs I’ve done. If I have offended you, in any way, please just. Just let me go. I won’t stop you. I won’t stop you.” His lip was juddering just a little, but he forced himself to meet Jaskier’s eyes. He had been brave facing death before, but to face love as well as death was the most terrifying thing he’d done or would ever do.

Jaskier was breathless. Time seemed frozen in the moment, the warm sun from across the mountains playing the romantic observer. No braziers, no burning books, just love, trust, acceptance, confessions.

With strength he had forgotten he possessed, Jaskier tugged Geralt forward, from the edge, into his arms, into a long-awaited kiss.

It tasted of tears, it tasted vaguely of a potion Geralt had probably drunk too much of, it tasted of longing and fear and hope and love, of love, their kiss would always taste of love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! Thank you so much to the wonderful people that have helped me out, to include:  
> \- my lovely husband Erik, who beta'd several chapters for me and kept me going while in the midst of fighting quarantine-related burnout. I love you so much words cannot express it justly, and I'm fucking amazing at words.  
> \- [janthonyashtoreth](https://janthonyashtoreth.tumblr.com/), who beta'd and constantly cheered me through writing this whole thing. Your support always, always brings a smile to my face.  
> \- the lovely readers who have left kudos and comments (sometimes on every chapter, and I love you the most)! I will be going through the comments over the next few days to answer any questions you have, please feel free to leave them below or on my [tumblr](https://imnotokiedokey.tumblr.com/) if that's easier!
> 
> Please let me know if you would like to see more of this series. I'm going to pivot to another Witcher project of mine and Jay's after this one, so if you want to get updated for any other works I put out, please [subscribe to this series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696759)! Thank you all so much for your love and support for this AU over the last week (feels soooo much longer), I hope you're all staying safe in these uncertain times. Ta~
> 
> P.S.: I made a [Spotify playlist of the music I listened to while writing every single word of this story](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7EUCrlADz2j3YFex76Zvlr?si=OYdxiEDDS-utBvEUh6JRBw), and it's 99% instrumental with the exception of one (1) song, but it's sung by Oscar Isaac so are you complaining?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [To Remember Me By](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25456546) by [Hunter_Caprittarius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hunter_Caprittarius/pseuds/Hunter_Caprittarius)




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